Pantheon of Seeds
by Silberias
Summary: In the modern world, the gods are born as mortal men and women. They find one another along the road of life, though some have more trouble with this than others. Out of all the potential Persephones out there in the country, Sherlock knows he needs just one. Which one, is the question that plagues him. Ongoing AU Sherlolly, Persephone/Hades styled fic. Rating expected to rise.
1. Chapter 1

From a prompt by keeperofthebooks over on tumblr: Sherlolly, Sherlock as Hades and Molly as Persephone. I've been finding I can't really say 'no' to AUs lately, so here this is! Posted over on Ao3 as well as tumblr on the PantheonOfSeeds blog. This is going to be a longer, drawn out fic of an indeterminate length. Not sure how long it'll be, yet, but I'm aiming for chapters around 2000 words long (give or take) so yeah.

I'm going to try to get around the noncon/dubcon elements that are inherent to the Hades/Persephone narrative because something that has been bothering me of late in the Sherlolly fandom is how controlling Sherlock has been portrayed. A man who wants Molly to look at no other man, who wants no other man to look at Molly, who wants to possess her entirely. I don't like those, at least the ones where Molly just has to go along with it. Notable exception to this would be Petra Todd's Thorns series because, well, it is well explained that that is what _Molly_ wants. So along the way here I'm going to try and subvert all that as best I can.

TLDR: Sherlock is the Hades of Britain, based out of London which is his city of the dead, and he has his entire court filled except for a companion. He has no Persephone.

Enjoy!

* * *

Being king of the dead really sucked sometimes. It was _boring_. Sherlock had come of age some twenty years ago and Mummy had wandered off shortly thereafter—he didn't really care, because wherever that had been had been out of his specific territory. In those twenty years, Sherlock had accomplished very little and recently branched out to more human professions. He'd decided to become a detective, helping the humans of London out as he could with solving crimes, murders usually.

Those were the times where being king of the dead was actually sort of nice—he simply needed to point out the details humans never looked at or for, and they could solve tricky murders with childlike ease. It made him feel good, in his way, that he was helping those who he ruled over. Though no one really liked someone who was king of the dead, and he was apparently no exception even if they didn't know his true identity. People who tolerated his casual disregard of death were few and far between, the rest viewing him as somewhat of a freak. Well, they weren't wrong. He was, in the sense of _their_ timescales, immortal.

Everyone died, even the gods of course. Someday—far in the future because he was still young—he would be taken by a Thanatos to sleep for eternity.

Oh, not by Mrs. Hudson, of course because she was close to retiring she claimed. Though she'd been claiming that for at least a hundred years, so Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of her insistence. He had the feeling that she was sticking around to make sure he had the ropes of his job well in hand. The gods of death had to be on a fairly even keel concerning duties and responsibilities, and he knew that she would sleep easier at night if she knew he had a Persephone at his side. She was already quietly searching through her own tips on local seeds to find a replacement for _herself_ but she was also on the lookout for someone to be his companion.

Everyone around Sherlock would sleep easier if he had a Persephone, and deep down even Sherlock knew he would sleep easier. But there rested the problem. Such people were rare gems among the rocks, and it was difficult to pry them out intact. What was the point of having a Persephone, in Sherlock's opinion, if her spirit of sweetness and kindness was broken in some way? It was a difficult task for any Hades to manage, because they took an exceptionally long time to grow emotions of love and kindness. People who were born, raised, trained and elevated as a Hades couldn't be ruled by their heart and for the most part were trained to ignore trivial things such as sentiment.

If they gave over to sentiment they couldn't do their job right.

That didn't bother Sherlock, and the idea of stalking through the city looking for seeds didn't bother him either. What really caused him discomfort was the notion of people-watching with intent to kidnap. He knew that Mummy had in fact spent a decade sitting on a park bench just _observing_ the men who walked by. It took patience that he hadn't cultivated despite having an excellent eye for seeds. He would learn patience when it suited him, and at the moment it did _not_ suit him.

He'd found a new Cerberus within days of Stanley's retirement—a man named John Watson who had exactly the kind of unyielding loyalty and strength that marked the position. _Position_. That was what being a god meant these days—more of a job, an occupation, than an exaltation. Sherlock didn't mind, but he knew others who grumbled at the 'loss' of such reverence. John didn't know about his recent promotion, though, because at the moment Sherlock was trying him out—to see if they could stand one another for any length of time because John could potentially be hanging about for a long, _long_ time.

It had taken him ten years to begin solidifying his court, ten years too long according to his elder brother, and now all he lacked was a Persephone. A wife, more accurately—biological children of gods were more likely to be seeds themselves which made it easier for open positions to be filled in later years. Now that he (hopefully) had a younger Cerberus he felt able to adequately look after such a woman.

A woman he'd have to fight for on several fronts, ones he hadn't in a long time if ever. Persephones were strong willed, sweet like spring, and fiercely beloved by a parent. Or parental figure, that would do too. His particular woman would stand up to him, who wouldn't fear him for what he was or presented himself as. Someone whose spirit was opposite his own bitter nature and who already knew love far more devoted than he would ever, _ever_ be able to give.

Mrs. Hudson gave him not-so-subtle hints that the daughter of the landlady next door showed more than a hint of being a Persephone seed—a lot more than a hint actually. Sherlock tried to dissuade his _landlady _(as he'd nicknamed her) as best he could. He wanted a woman who was as fascinated as (or at least not perturbed by)he was with mystery and death—a woman who practiced mortal sciences as he did, with whom he could share interests and pursuits. He truly was a Hades, though, wanting these things while not being the least interested in the things a Persephone would take to—kittens and flowers, kissing children and hugging the elderly. Those were, for the most part, things _endured_ rather than shared.

Sherlock wanted to endure as little of these habits as possible, so he looked in science conservatories, and police agencies—using his mortal cover as a detective to gain entrance and trust. He was a private detective as well as a consulting one, he told the people he encountered—what he'd told John, even—and he was searching for something. Someone, actually. Sherlock never told them _what_ or _who_, only elaborating that his own business had led him straight into theirs—that he was here to help them solve whatever mystery lay before them before moving on with his own case.

London was his domain while the entire island of Great Britain, from the very northernmost spit of land in Scotland to Sennen in the far, far south was under his watch. Sherlock knew every single street, every single sign, the timing of every light, the new districts, the places which only barely concealed the ravages of the century, the cemeteries, and the foreign restaurants. All he had to do to amuse himself on a given day was walk through his city, eyes closed, knowing the patterns of human movement and dodging those in his path. The warmth of their lives, the improbability of their happiness, and the occasional cool breath of a seed.

The gods never were anything special or immovable by time—it was only chance that the old Aegean names had been taken up at all—they were in fact born and died much the way humans did. They _were_ humans of a sort—humans who could _choose_ to age. At least that was what Sherlock was able to determine from studying tissue samples of his fellow _immortals_. Their breath was a hair cooler, their souls a touch older, and it was from the temperature around them and the crunch of their eyes that one could _tell_. Sherlock was excellent at it—he had filled his entire court entirely himself he was so good at it.

His wanderings always brought him back home—he'd recently moved to a new residence, wishing to keep up a more mortal appearance. 221 Baker Street, flat B—Mrs. Hudson had quite happily moved into A and set to work on fixing up another one of the rooms for the new Cerberus. _John_. Names, Sherlock, names. Mycroft had, of course, put up token resistance—he'd been quite attached to Stanley himself and didn't believe anyone capable of looking after Sherlock as well as the old Welshman had. Doctor Watson had proved undeniably able for the job, according to his elder brother. According to _Sherlock_ too, having been saved by John from a rather uncomfortable night recovering from the deathly poison. A night made even more uncomfortable by having to _explain_ to John exactly why he wasn't severely dead from said poison.

As he climbed up the stairs, he knew from the lovely smell in the air that there would be biscuits and tea in the living room—and the knowledge that caring for him and being sweet to him were out of the purview of his _landlady_ and his new _flatmate _hit him. Sherlock came to a stop, standing flatfooted on a single stair step, his long coat hanging heavy on his shoulders. The boredom he could deal with. He always had and he always would. The dead were by their very nature _boring_. It was this entirely new wave of _loneliness_ that caught him off guard. He'd never in his life—a life of well over sixty years now—had someone who made biscuits and tea in anticipation of his return home, and this was not something which would be repeated often.

Mrs. Hudson was only making the flat welcome for John to entice him to stay and put up with Sherlock, once she was assured he would stay she would likely decrease things like tea and biscuits—and that made him incredibly lonely. He wanted to share his life with someone, and at the moment he was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

The quiet townhouse of 221 suddenly shrunk around him, the air growing colder in his lungs as he breathed in and out. Mummy had said a day like this would come if he didn't put early enough effort towards his search for his Persephone. His feet felt like they were nailed to the step. With nails made of ice.

"The air will choke your every breath, and even the whole of London will close in about you. It seizes, you, Sherlock, it seizes your heart and tries to drag it from you. You'll look for her whether you choose to or not, because the state you'll be plunged into will be untenable in the long-term."

John poked his head out of the flat, a half-eaten biscuit in hand. Sherlock sealed his lips shut and flicked a smile up at the man, acting as normal as he could on command—just a twitch of the lips and a nod, really. The other man saluted him with the biscuit, a good natured smile touching his lips as he chewed the bite he already had.

"Mrs. Hudson left us some biscuits—said you'd wander back soon. Saved you some."

Though his feet were hard to move, as though weighted down and ponderous, Sherlock started up the steps once more. John smiled at him again and popped back into the flat. John was not a pet, no Cerberus was, and he had to remind himself of that—besides, he needed a wife at his side more than he needed a dog. Even a three-headed one nearly _made_ of loyalty.

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	2. Chapter 2

To everyone: thank you for the support and the follows for this story! As for the one anon, if you don't like it/where I'm going with it, don't read it! Simple! Though I do appreciate you pointing out the things you did I have kind of already solved the problems you brought up. But it ruins the story (and is poor storytelling) to lay all of that out in the first chapter. I was already leery with what I did provide in the first chapter and in this one as well.

For a quick answer, though, Sherlock can still be a fantastic detective and the god of death because he isn't the one out killing people and deciding they die. The fates decide who dies, and Mrs. Hudson (his Thanatos) marks the actual people for death. Sherlock can still solve the crimes because of these delegations of power. I hope this chapter helps you out, too, and that if you still don't like the story after reading this chapter that you'll save yourself from my writing by not reading more of it.

Again, thanks for the support, everyone!

Enjoy!

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John was out trying to get a job, while Mrs. Hudson came up and made tea for them. She kept to her own business—sorting out who was supposed to die, who had close calls, the like—except for when she felt that there was more than a bit of murder going on. She didn't like murder, and so Sherlock's new hobby of being a detective suited her sensibilities. He went about finding the people who were _doing_ the murdering. For instance she was just mentioning to him about the mysterious deaths of a banker _and_ a journalist when a _representative_ of the Jaria Diamond client arrived at the flat.

This was Sherlock's problem, and so she winked herself invisible and awaited the inevitable. Sherlock let the man have a good run for his money—really, the fact that the sword had managed to hit anything was an accomplishment when fighting Hades, even if Hades himself hadn't been hit. He wondered, as he delivered the last few blows, what the man would've done had he known he was battling someone who was essentially immortal. Very few mortal blows would actually kill one of the gods—_gods_, really, the term was inane—and this man hadn't stood a chance even though he'd been armed to the teeth.

Mrs. Hudson had clucked at him as she sat once again in John's chair. Sherlock rolled his eyes and collapsed back into his seat.

"You didn't have to kill him, Sherlock."

"You've known he was on your list for five days, you didn't have to drag it out."

"Oh, it's not my fault what the Fates spin out, Sherlock, and you know it. This man was going to die on or around this day, at or around this time, and by the hand of an immortal. And besides," her smile was quite warm but he barely felt it, "it is good to see how well the rich man can fight." Sherlock smiled bitterly and then settled further into his chair, pursing his lips and steepling his fingers. Mrs. Hudson finished her tea and then called up her boys—she had had the extreme fortune of having both her children grow up as seeds.

She and Grandmere had trained the two as Acherons, bearers of the dead to the underworld. Usually a court only had one person in a given position, but no one argued with Mrs. Hudson and certainly no one had ever argued with Grandmere. Or so he'd heard. Sherlock had never met Grandmere, the woman having passed away a hundred and fifty years before his birth. Back then the family had been in France, and only at her death had they made the move to England. Their departure had apparently sparked the French Revolution—the new Hades, with a newer Thanatos, had been a bit overzealous for the first fifty years or so of their reigns.

Mrs. Hudson and her sons—and the dearly departed Jaria representative—had only just made their exit when John returned in a hell of a mood. Sherlock didn't actually smile, but he did internally. His _landlady's_ affection as well as John's fire were barely reaching him now but perhaps this case of Mrs. Hudson's dead banker and journalist would warm him a bit. One never knew when one might meet a damsel in distress, after all.

* * *

Molly's cat had woken her up early today. The fuzzy black cat was half-grown, gifted as a kitten by her then-dying father. Flip was only eight weeks old when her father had adopted him, apparently on one of his last independent journeys away from the house. She'd taken the tiny cat from his cool hands, tears in her eyes and a laugh choking out of her mouth. Her dad—Old Toby to all of his friends down at the pub—had smiled through his own tears at her and had taken a picture. He'd only lived another few months, encouraging her to follow her desires and dreams all while petting the little cat. The three of them had been inseparable until the end.

Flip was an intrepid little animal—much like that man who'd started showing up on her shifts at the morgue. Sherlock Holmes—he'd been around for years, but had been more of a phantom rumor to Molly than anything real—the _consulting detective_. He wasn't fooling anyone, especially not Molly—she'd looked up _consulting detectives_ and there was no such job. He'd made it up, and was trying to pull the wool over everyone's eyes with it too.

Molly did cut him a little slack: at least he was good at his job, even if it was made up. He'd left his mobile number—call, don't text—with her if any interesting deaths showed up in her morgue.

_Lestrade's the only detective who'll work with me, but not every case of his needs my help. I get bored._

The detective—who Molly vaguely remembered from when he occasionally handled suspicious deaths which came into the hospital morgue—was apparently not allowed to actually call Sherlock on cases. Their interactions had to be done person or by text or not happen at all. Molly had only found this out a few weeks ago, actually, when she and the man had been chatting as she looked for a file for him. Something about a toxicology report maybe, she couldn't remember really.

"You know that Sherlock Holmes bloke, yeah?"

"He comes around a bit, yes."

"Bloody man is on me about _what is the next case, I need a weird case, are you stuck anywhere with the Ludwig case?_ But—and get this," Lestrade managed around the apple he was munching on, "he won't call me. Won't even answer if I _dare_ call him. _Text or face, I have to see it._" Molly made the appropriately pitying comments after that, and kept it to herself that Sherlock had told her just the opposite. He wanted to _hear_ her descriptions, a phone call being faster to communicate than asking him to come over and look or trying to fit all of her observations into a text. It did make her feel a bit special, but only a bit.

Mostly she hoped she didn't see the man for a little while—he'd hurt her pride the last time they'd seen each other, completely sidestepping her asking him out. Doctor Stamford had told her to let it go, that the detective hadn't meant anything by it. Molly wasn't going to let him off that easily though. She was a human being and deserved respect as much as anyone else—just because stupid Sherlock Holmes thought he was better than everyone didn't mean he necessarily was. He was just a man, like any other. The next time she saw him she wouldn't make a big deal of it, but she'd make it clear he would have to treat her better if he wanted access to the labs during her shifts. Just a _teensy_ bit of effort was all she was after.

Flip snaked around her ankles for most of the morning and she was glad she hadn't decided to rename him or something stupid—like after Sherlock Holmes of all people. At least Flip paid attention to her—and that was what she wanted. She didn't want either the cat or the man to fall at her feet and worship the shoes on them, but a little respect and attention would be nice—the cherry on top. The cat's jade green eyes shut with pleasure as she petted him and scratched the top of his head—she could return a bit of affection with some herself, she wasn't cold-hearted by any means.

The day was normal and good. A couple elderly people in on cases of natural causes, a teenager caught up in a courier-bike wreck, and then a couple of suicides—one suspicious. Molly didn't call Sherlock, because the DI she brought up the suspicious one to had dismissed her concerns. This was just one of those times where she was the only one capable to notice anything suspicious—it would've been hard for him to shoot himself as claimed in the report, but it wasn't impossible—and had no one who'd listen to her. After the run-in with the DI she had paperwork, and she accidentally worked through what was her normal lunch-hour.

Molly curled up with a book in the lab, waiting for the caf to switch over to supper—she had learned a long time ago that if she missed the first bit of lunch it was better to just wait for supper. Besides, they had a nice pork loin planned on the month's menu for tonight and she liked pork. Sure it was cafeteria quality, but it was a fair sight better than making it at home—starving—after a long shift at work. Stamford said it was morbid that she liked pork—of all sorts—when her job was to slice up the bodies of the dead. On her braver days, Molly would joke that it kept her in practice to buy a whole roast and fix it up for a party.

There hadn't been many parties since her dad had passed away, but maybe that would change soon. There was that lovely black dress she'd worn to her cousin's reception, maybe that wouldn't look too bad on her at a get-together for cocktails sometime. It would actually look excellent, she decided as she picked up the tray just inside the caf and headed for the line. Molly was halfway through a mental guestlist when there was a tap on her shoulder.

"What are you thinking—the pork or the pasta?"

"Oh it's you!" Sherlock smiled, his face looking exactly like Flip's did before the kitten knocked a dish from a table or something. Molly tensed up just a little—she still had to give Sherlock a bit of a wake-up call in regards to how he had to treat her from now on. Maybe not respect, but at least an attempt at civility would be kind. Sherlock though had dropped the smile and looked like he was trying to come up with small-talk—he really ought to stick to being a consulting detective, as 'master of conversation' he was not.

It was probably better that she try and see someone else, though, because it wouldn't ever work between them. Sherlock was exciting, and fun, but at some point she had to realize the facts of the matter. People changed and were happy for it when they _wanted_ to change, and no one could make someone change—she couldn't 'save' Sherlock or 'change' him into a better man. He was the man he was at the end of the day, and she was the woman she was at the end of the day. Molly needed someone to watch Glee with her and play with her cat while she made dinner, not someone who asked her to break the rules at the risk of her job, and that was that.

* * *

Jim had escaped by the skin of his teeth—stowed on a ferryboat from Cork. With nothing on his back but his clothes and nothing in his pockets but sopping lint, he made his way towards London—there lay the British Olympus, and also the cold court. As he gracefully avoided tourists and cast minor glamours on sheets of paper—just making them into tickets, harmless stuff really—Jim wondered how he ought to get into the good graces of _Sherlock Holmes_. The man cared nothing for foreign courts, keeping to himself and his duties, and wouldn't have heard of Jim's experience in Ireland. Sherlock Holmes was a good and proper Hades, who didn't mess about in affairs not his own—nice and detached from the world of humans from what he'd heard.

Unlike back home.

The boat he'd caught had been marked to sink—taking all souls. Had things been going well, he might have spirited himself to the docks sometime in the night and just _breathed_ on the hull or the engine or whatever he'd felt like to bring the vessel down. But no—he had instead willed himself invisible and tried to stay out of the way of the small crew and the passengers of the ferry. There could be no hint of his having come this way, otherwise inquiries might be sent to London. He would send the ferry and the crew on their not-so-merry way when they reached English shores. He had no desire to carry his bad recommendation—undeserved and unflattering—to the Hades of London before he'd gotten the man's ear.

The man was a new Hades, and probably hadn't fully formed his court. So Holmes was therefore _probably_ in need of an _excellent_ Thanatos—word was Old Hudson had retired recently—and Jim knew at least one thing in this new life of his, a life on the run with next to nothing of comfort or convenience. What he knew was that Jim Moriarty was an _excellent_ Thanatos.

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	3. Chapter 3

Just to clarify, Mrs. Hudson is Sherlock's current-almost-retired Thanatos, not Persephone. I'm also hoping to make this story easily accessible so that people don't have to track over hill-and-dale to figure out what I'm doing sometimes. The times where I _know_ that something will be better understood with some explanation, I will have a funfact or two up at the top of the chapter. If I ever put something in that confuses you though, please pipe up about it! I'll answer your question or clarify in a PM and then also put it up in the next chapter as well for others.

Enjoy!

* * *

He had managed to scrabble together some money over the last several weeks, just enough for a flat and some new clothes that didn't stink of seawater. Some paperwork, too, such as IDs and passes for the tube to make life among mortals just a smidgen easier. He'd found some desperate people and enabled them in return for the money—the people they were after were fated to die, so it didn't really matter—to get their wishes fulfilled. An insane cabbie, an overly murderous Chinese gang, and now the owner of a forged painting willing to do anything to keep her secret. Jim tried to leave his own personal touches to each, hoping that Sherlock Holmes would pick up on his skill. Because he was flawlessly talented at his job.

Being Thanatos was an art of precision and patience and cleverness. None of the businesslike delegation of Hades, none of the carrying out of curses or praises on the dead as Persephone did, none of the watches stood in the night by Cerberus, and certainly no subsidized taxi services. Each Thanatos had to commune directly with the fates, before relying on their own wits to carry out each fate of each creature assigned them. No one helped them, and they had to pass unseen through the lives of those they hunted.

He had been thoroughly trained in Ireland. Of all the gods, Thanatoi seeds were the longest lived—even longer if they became fully fledged ones. Jim was sitting at a pretty one hundred years old, and was looking forward to another two hundred _at least_. His own mentor, Eoghan, had made it to a round four hundred. Eoghan had been absolutely brilliant, and Jim had to credit his predecessor's skills as he put them to use.

Sherlock Holmes had no idea he was being followed around and observed.

His initial idea was just to present himself to Sherlock and see what happened. If he got the job after explaining himself, after bringing to light the situation which had caused him to flee from Ireland. The plan had been altered though after just a few days when it became apparent that his potential employer really _was_ missing someone. The Hades of Britain was without his Persephone. There was no other answer. Sherlock hadn't been on the job long enough to have gotten comfortable with the idea that the woman would stay around, and no Hades that Jim had ever heard of had become that comfortable until at least a decade had passed. The old charms—cursed fruit and the like—had fallen out of favor nearly six hundred years ago. Other methods were used to keep one's Persephone close, and varied on the user. Some fell in legitimate love. Others didn't. Back at home, Biddy had been so worried Alfie would change his mind and leave that she'd locked him up on an island—more a spit of rock sticking up from the ocean—for thirty years.

The memories of Biddy were deeply connected with the last words she'd spoken to him, and those made Jim scowl deeply. Instead he focused on making _damn _sure that he was right in assuming Sherlock Holmes was alone in the world, without a sustaining and nurturing relationship to his name. Even the most _well intentioned_ needed someone to look after them, and Jim smiled with the prospect of bringing to light a proper companion for Sherlock Holmes. Anything would help after his disastrous experience in Ireland.

Sherlock and his new Cerberus explored throughout London, solving crimes for the mortals surrounding them every day. Jim thought it a rather clever way to reduce the boredom that came with living such a freakishly long life. The longevity of nearly all of the gods ensured that they had an unparalleled eye for detail, something which was left uncultivated in humans for the most part simply because there wasn't often time to develop such a skill. Sherlock had little part in the actual deaths of people—and none in crimes such as theft or break-ins or blackmail—because that wasn't his job. His _job_ was to ensure that everyone in the land of the dead was playing nicely. The dead stayed dead at a steady rate, Thanatos taking no more and no less than allotted, Cerberus ensuring that what is dead remains that way, and so on and so forth.

The man definitely ran a tight ship in the absence of a Thanatos—Old Hudson had been _good_, but everyone got old—by mostly trusting that humans would figure out their premature deaths on their own when they'd been fated. The rest seemed to be done by freelancers, which surprised Jim but at least they were skilled enough to remain nearly invisible to him. Sherlock was also a man of science, regularly tearing through scientific journals he saw on newsstands, in libraries, and also conducting his own experiments at a hospital close to his flat.

St. Bartholomew's—the age of the name must have drawn Sherlock. It certainly had a pull on Jim himself as he trailed behind his current target. The walls felt old, even though they were new. _New-ish_, he smirked, running his fingers along a crack in one of them. This was a place of teaching, and apparently where Sherlock was decoding the secrets of the immortals. It must have looked like a mad quest to everyone else around him—studying things like the behavior of saliva in refrigeration, fingernail growth, the composition and density of hair follicles let _alone_ the tissue research—but not to Jim.

This was probably a good place to start looking for someone to place at Sherlock's side, something which the man would be immeasurably grateful for. Probably. He hid in one of the cooling lockers in the morgue a lot of the time, listening to Sherlock's conversations with those there. Stamford he ignored—incompatible in more ways than one. _Asculphus_ whispered through his mind though, and that provided the key clue for Jim.

Where there was an Asculphus, almost always followed a Persephone. It was the way of things.

Jim conjured up a job in IT, and took his breaks in the room where the three women with access to the morgues often took theirs. The room was sparse, very nineties in his humble opinion but the patrons obviously didn't mind. It had two coffee makers—one of which was exclusively reserved for one Sherlock Holmes—a small fridge with people's lunches, and a nice pair of lights on the ceiling. One of the lights flickered annoyingly and was therefore often left turned off. _Jim from IT_ claimed that this particular lunch room was nice, quiet and, putting a bit of flirtation on, the company was greatly improved from the one he'd been using before.

He quickly met everyone he needed to know—even getting familiar with and soon halfway appreciate the face of _Mike_ Stamford—and had found the woman he was looking for out of the three available. The first was Jan Riggs, a woman without even a spark of potential as a seed. The second was Anna Goldman, equally boring. It was with the third that he found the gem in the rough—_Molly Hooper_.

He asked her out, naturally, just to determine what sort of person she was behind the 'work persona.' The air around her was cool, though her skin warm to the touch, and her eyes were bright but sad in a way that made them look old. Definitely a seed, but he forced himself to actually determine what path she was set on before contacting her.

This didn't stop him beginning to, with great pride, furnish the sparse flat he'd taken occupancy of upon arriving in London. If he was going to be staying awhile, he ought to have the place look proper for when Sherlock Holmes eventually came to visit his new Thanatos. Jim's smile was gleeful as he thought of perhaps even moving to Baker Street and being able to have an actual court for the first time in his life—a gathering of the gods of the shades such as hadn't been seen in Ireland at least for five hundred years. Since he was exiled from Ireland, he would make his way as best he could here in the cold court of the British Hades and that was just fine with him.

Molly, he figured out quickly, was a sweet woman who had a cat and liked American telly. She was also an accomplished pathologist who didn't have many friends. She quietly said she was glad that he let her talk, that she'd dated some men who weren't interested in what she did or actually kept her from talking about her job. Jim didn't enthuse in his response—that would have been more than odd for who he was claiming to be—but he did deflect her comment positively.

"It's what you do, and you like it. I mean, I don't need every bloody detail," he'd chuckled at the joke and she'd giggled along with him, "but I feel like you can edit for the poor IT guy. It's nice that you're, you know, you."

He made sure not to be around her at the same time she was around Sherlock, because he wasn't quite ready to force the man to see the potential in himself and Molly. Part of being a Thanatos was a major chunk of patience, of knowing the game and when to end it. The fates existed for a reason—everyone was meant to go _at some point_—and it was his job to live up to that reason. He was sometimes no more than a piece on their grand chessboard, and he liked it that way.

The first date with Molly was just out for lunch, at an absolutely tiny hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese which served, among other things, baguettes. She'd never been there or even tried Vietnamese food, but smiled with pleasure as she ate her sandwich. Jim refrained from holding her hand at all, because he neither wanted to keep her for himself nor cause some sort of jealous rage in Sherlock nor create any particular affection for himself in Molly's heart. That would be the worst kind of miscalculation in this game.

Her cat was named Flip, something he found out on his second date with her, and had been given to her by her father. The man was recently departed, and Jim sincerely expressed sympathy to her. Molly was stronger than she looked though, sitting on her couch and scratching the cat's belly and playing don't-get-scratched with him. One of her favorite shows was on, and he'd expressed a great liking for it on their last little date which is why Molly had invited him over this particular evening. Her smiles faded a little as she spoke of her father but apparently both of them had accepted his passing before he'd gone. This didn't surprise Jim in the least.

Their third date was just an informal one, exploring Bart's.

Part of Jim from IT's persona was that he was a history nut, and he'd taken her through all the wings and courtyards and explained every detail he knew of the place. He'd had a fair amount of time to familiarize himself with the place, and his attention to detail showed. Molly was girlishly thrilled on their expedition, and Jim tried to tamp down on his doubts.

From what he'd been discovering about Sherlock Holmes was not only did the man keep such an amazingly tight ship, but he was also a brilliant detective. He should have been able to sense Molly Hooper, he should have been able to realize her presence so close to his side already. Jim rationalized that it was precisely because of that proximity that Sherlock had so far been blind, and that the man really did need his help finding her. That his actions would therefore be doubly appreciated when he made his big-reveal of himself _and_ Molly.

Sherlock was just too close to actually focus properly on Molly Hooper.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

Thank you everyone for the follows and reviews, I can't even believe that there is this much response to a story like this.

Thank you katdemon1895, Empress of Verace, squibalicious, LaserGirl77, hihiyas, Mrs Dizzy, CreamCrop, magicstrikes, Rocking the Redhead, D. Melanogaster, AngelQueen01, and a few guests for your reviews last chapter! I'm sorry it took a month to update, I kinda forgot about work and life while I was on vacation and both of those kind of slammed me against ground the instant I got off the plane back at the beginning of January. I've been chipping away at this as I've been able, but as I explained on Ao3 I had to contend with three jobs and finding time to sleep.

This is going to be a pretty slow moving story anyway, despite the (hopefully twice monthly) updating schedule. I want to take my time with it, as most of my fics skip over a lot of time and space and emotional issues. That is a flaw in my writing, and taking my time with the plot will make it better. Probably. Hopefully. Something.

Enjoy!

* * *

He didn't like to just hope, because hoping led to disasters for the regular people who filled the world. Disasters like the one he was getting called in on in America, because they knew he could help them. As much as he hated to, he knew they needed him. Most of the rest of the world's shadow courts looked at his own in envy, and none more so than the Americans. Mycroft ran his court like a corporation, not a government. Regular human beings had their own governments, there was no need for him to butt in on their affairs like that. The American gods, however, kept trying to butt in. They wanted his corporate-style, yes, but they wanted their people to worship it.

They hoped that they could skew his model into one which fitted their tastes better, and that was the main fault in their plans. They would put the first seed they found into a position, and hope for the best—hope that the person would swim rather than sink. They would pin everything on something they barely understood or knew. Mycroft didn't have time for trials by fire, though, he had a country of more than sixty million to care for in one sense or another. Though they were small and distant, human beings mattered immensely. Mycroft would not put them through horrors untold because he was too lazy to actually vet the seeds he found before putting them in the positions they would grow into.

His life was so much easier since he had found a proper Athena—and she had been a right, proper Athena, coming straight from one of his worst headaches. The US, the Americans. Her father was British, and her mother American, and she'd spent enough time between the two nations that she well understood the things that could baffle Mycroft. Whenever he needed to put a level head on something, he knew he could trust her. To an extent, of course, but it was enough at the moment. Any relief he could get from the constant melt-down situation across the ocean, Mycroft Holmes would take.

Of course, Mycroft did not _hope_ that his new Athena would work out in the long-run. He _knew_ she would. Mummy had trained him well before giving him over to the tutelage of his predecessor. How fitting, everyone had nodded their heads over himself and Sherlock from their earliest years, that Mycroft should have a brother seeded to be Hades. They were just _hoping_ that the two of them made the cut, and that sometimes left Mycroft awake at night worrying. The generation previous had _hoped_, and not looked for potential alternates.

He refused to do silly things like hope. He had planned, decades ago, when he would pick a successor and how he would cultivate their abilities and resourcefulness. Mycroft gave himself time enough to choose, and time enough to train, and time enough to transition. Seeds were born every day, of every strength—he did not have to hope that one would be born to suit his needs.

Which was why Sherlock's fate was such a sorry one indeed—the man had to hope that when the melancholy took him, he would be able to find a suitable match for himself. The yawning stretch of years—at least a few _hundred_—between now and the shades of death was not something one wanted to pair with an intolerable companion. That, however, was just what Sherlock might end up doing should he latch onto the wrong Persephone. Sherlock was pragmatic, he would deal with whatever was dealt in for his future, but Mycroft would not wish his brother's fate on anyone.

Especially not when Sherlock had it in his head that he would try to kidnap someone he at least knew a little, rather than a complete stranger. His younger brother wanted to know his Persephone, befriend her or him—wanted to have some firm ground to stand on in the midst of what the fates had spun for them. In Mycroft's opinion, though, that just meant his brother had well and truly fallen into the danger of _hoping_. Hoping that an acquaintance might forgive him sooner or better than a stranger, hoping that their previous lives around each other might bring them back to him when he was forced to briefly release them and _hope_ they came back.

Most of the time, even as he and his Athena dealt with the Americans and their ilk, Mycroft was quite glad he had not been born a Hades seed.

* * *

Molly knew that Sherlock was now apparently on the look-out for her while she was in line for food in the caf. She wasn't mad at him anymore, really. He'd tried, he'd complimented her—and not taken it back or made it backhanded—but she just didn't have the energy for him. Sherlock Holmes was pretty, and dashing and exciting but ultimately he was too much for her. So yes, she was avoiding him.

Making lunches and bringing them also saved her time during the day at work. No waiting in line, no randomness in choice—she got to eat exactly what she wanted every time—and no awkward chat with the teachers and sometimes students. She'd never quite understood why people had such a hang-up about medical cadavers and the like—especially their hang-up with the people who _worked _with those cadavers. They looked at her like she was creepy, like she was some sort of freak. Molly was glad to be rid of them, at least for now.

Jan gladly helped make some room in the fridge for Molly's food and quietly reminded her of the problems they'd had with that awful detective man stealing food on occasion, and that he liked fresh fruit and baked goods the best so it was a good idea to bring a sacrificial roll or apple each day. If he was going to steal food, at least make it so that you still had lunch once he was through with your food.

She thanked Jan and said that she would handle it, and that she'd keep the advice in mind.

_Sherlock if you eat my lunches I'll prohibit you from visiting the labs during my shifts. ~Molly_

The simple note would take care of it, and if it didn't then she had something to fall back on. A threat to carry out, which she promised herself she _would_ do. Sherlock wasn't going to just eat her food because it was _there_ like he did with everyone else's. If he wanted food, he could bring it to Barts like a normal human being.

She'd only been eating in the break room for two days when she met the most wonderful man. He said his name was Jim, from up in IT. She'd smiled warmly, introducing herself as _Molly, from down in the morgue—oh, um, I'm a pathologist. Named Molly—I—_Jim hadn't said anything derisive about her conversational skills, seeming to have the same awkwardness. She'd immediately liked him, though she knew that sometimes first-likings didn't end up as anything. He was nice, and that was a good sight better than the _last_ man she'd immediately liked.

Jim was losing a bit of hair, not much but a little bit, and his smile was well-worn and as comforting as his slight accent. He would be nice to date as a way to get over her crush on Sherlock, she decided. It wasn't like anything could come of two dates where they still didn't know each other's last names—he didn't matter enough to her to know his surname, and he'd never asked after hers. It would do her good, she decided.

And if maybe she brought Jim around to show him off to Sherlock, then who could blame her, really? He probably wouldn't even notice, but it would at least make Molly herself feel better. Feel like she'd shown Sherlock that she'd moved on, that she wasn't going to hang around and let him be mean to her most of the time and nice only when it suited him. Her mum would've said it was petty and self-serving, but Molly felt like she'd done enough of trying to be sweet and selfless—if she was going to do a rebound relationship with Jim from IT, then she was going to do it. What was the harm in a fun little office romance?

It was nice to feel as though she was appreciated, too. Jim liked the cookies she baked and brought with her in her lunch, and he always said nice things which she didn't worry were sincere. But it wouldn't work, she knew. Office romances were small things, they never amounted to much. This was just to tide her over until she was better able to move past her feelings for Sherlock.

* * *

He really had no idea. Magda had a private smile at John Watson over the tea she was making him have with her. Sherlock truly planned on keeping the man in the dark until no other option was possible. It was a lovely farce of a plan, keeping Cerberus as clueless as a pet hound. She wasn't in favor of it, but then again she wasn't in total favor of a lot of Sherlock's decisions. It was a nice boon that she was looking to retire—just as soon as he was settled with a wife.

Or a girlfriend at least.

Someone to feed him up when he forgot that while he wasn't strictly human he was still strictly mortal. John Watson couldn't be expected to do that, it wasn't his job. His job was to look after Hades and his holdings, not make sure that Sherlock actually drank enough liquid to function or put a sandwich in his mouth from time to time.

John had no idea who he was living with, who his 'landlady' was. The terms amused Sherlock, and if Magda was honest with herself they amused her as well. The British shadow court's Thanatos going about as Hades' _landlady_. John might have gotten a laugh out of it too, had Sherlock allowed him to be in the loop.

_Just until I'm settled, properly. I've already got you and Mycroft breathing down my neck about it, John would only add to it. He would worry and hover._

_Oh, but you see dear we're all just _concerned_ about you. No one lives forever—truly forever—and someday the only one looking after you will be your—_Sherlock hadn't stayed until the end of that particular conversation. He hadn't needed to. They both knew what he needed and what she'd been about to say.

Persephone.

One of the seed groups closest to regular human beings—decent and innocent—and therefore the hardest to separate wheat from chaff. Gabrielle had essentially waited ten years in a park for her Persephone to wander by, just watching for someone who moved just a hair apart from the rest of the crowds, who savored the flowers just a little too long. A handsome Englishman named Brannick Holmes, visiting as an attaché of some sort for a British envoy to the court of Louis XVI, had eventually been Gabrielle's prize. They'd both been young, which is why they'd gotten away with taking so long to fall in love and start a family.

Brannick hadn't taken kindly to the idea of being forced to stay in France, which contributed to their flight to England. Sometimes Magda missed France, but she knew that they'd prohibited her return. Their loss—she could teach their current Thanatos a thing or two about doing his damn job.

If only Stanley had stayed on for a little while longer to help John Watson learn the ropes—Magda could train one of her own, but the duties of Cerberus weren't hers to know. Well, the man was a quick study, she was sure. Sherlock wouldn't have picked someone who couldn't catch on by themselves. She only hoped that the boy managed to fight off his melancholy long enough to get his way with picking a companion.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

In which Sherlock tries to figure out what is going on, John looks, and Greg is Greg who is earnest. Seriously, I love the BBC Greg Lestrade to flipping pieces. And spoilers: he's gonna be pretty badass in this fic, if I do say so myself. The plot is coming, by the way, I promise. Thanks to those of you who reviewed and added this to alerts: Kawoosh, AngelQueen01, Rocking the Redhead, ThefadingdaysofMay, magicstrikes, Elliesmeow, and a guest.

Enjoy!

* * *

John watched quietly as his flatmate of two months sat in nearly complete silence save for the occasional mumble. The man hardly even twitched. Sherlock was well and truly lost in his own mind at the moment. John couldn't quite tell what particular case the consulting detective was working on but it was obviously paining him. When Sherlock was on a case which was going well he was barely controllable, his movements uncontained and wild. When they were bad…this kind of thing happened. John couldn't say he really minded it though.

He didn't mind because he liked it here. He liked staying with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. For the first time in a long time he felt like he was at home. When he caught a few hours of sleep between chasing Sherlock around London he rested in a way he hadn't since his childhood. It was like time flew around him while he slowed to a more leisurely pace. Took time to smell the flowers, in a way. Two months had seemed a week and a half, but he savored his memories as though they were a year old or more.

On the days where they were both so quiet that the ticking of their watches was deafening, John had time to analyze his flatmate like he had been for most of this afternoon. The man hadn't ever mentioned his age, though he looked to be in his mid-thirties. On the younger side of mid, too. John had asked Sherlock once where he'd gotten his start—the first taste—in detective work. The curly haired man had explained in a soft voice a case about a drowned boy at a swimming tournament. Twenty years ago now from Sherlock's description. It must have been a very traumatizing thing to have followed on the telly for a boy of no more than fifteen. John could easily see that as beginning a life of being a detective. It also, to him at least, explained why Sherlock seemed so old and jaded. So clinically detached. He had been too close, as a boy, before and now he actively put distance between himself and his cases. Between himself and the world which was too violent and loud, too close and uncomfortable.

He was derisive of forming relationships—sometimes even being friends with John seemed to tax him—and John couldn't help but want to help him get over it. Or perhaps manage his feelings better, if not get over them completely. Somehow, he wanted to set Sherlock up with someone. Someone who could be a better support for him than John. John could be Sherlock's friend, and he recognized that while he fulfilled a need in Sherlock's life—and Sherlock in his—that they weren't that _sort_ of supportive to one another. Friends. Friends who were quickly—despite Sherlock's efforts it would seem—becoming best friends.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to like this idea of a companion too, prattling at length about Mrs. Turner's daughter and her many traits which might appeal to Sherlock. The detective, as far as John could tell, was apathetic at best and outright avoidant at worst concerning the young Miss Turner. He needed someone, but not just anyone. Not anyone that Mrs. Hudson—or even John himself for that matter—knew or deemed appropriate. He hoped, for Sherlock's sake, that the man found a girlfriend—or boyfriend—and _soon_. This business of being so lonely it showed through Sherlock's best defenses needed to be cut out. It put a damper on the mood of the whole house let alone their particular flat.

To be fair, aside from the melancholy airs that his flatmate put on, life at 221B was well and far beyond John's wildest dreams.

* * *

Moriarty. An old name, hard to place in exact origin—really. No Humperdinck or Easelwaith or Kaminski or O'Shea. But the name connected so _many_ places. It was sometimes just a blip, others it was nearly instrumental in the entire scene down to even the set and props. Now Sherlock was sure that _Moriarty_, whoever he or she was, had spun a web to catch something. He just had to figure out what the bad side of London had in common with the bad side of Hong Kong and Chinatown—and what those places had in common with the bad side of a gang of eastern European mobsters, and now the bad side of Sherlock's own homeless network. That was the main part that worried him—whoever Moriarty was, they had accessed the network of homeless people who worked for Sherlock in a way. His useful took had become a double-edged sword.

He truly appreciated the homeless in the cities across Britain, though, he did.

They were so outside of the pulse of _normal_ humanity that he could walk among them as his true self. The Sherlock Holmes that no one saw save for when he slipped out of the flat in the dead of night with Mrs. Hudson to help her on her rounds—when they worked together, they could easily speed from the far north to the very southern coasts in a few hours. John never missed them, sleeping blissfully through the nights that Sherlock deigned to let him sleep. The homeless saw them. The little old lady in bleeding crimson or royal purple or burnt maroon or lightly smoked navy—depending on her mood and mission—and the tall, gaunt man in the flapping coat. The homeless _knew_ them without knowing them. Death, in different forms and shapes.

_Death_.

Whoever Moriarty was—a _fan_ as the cabbie had described them—they were a force to be reckoned with. Moriarty was either an extremely intelligent mortal, or was in fact a hugely powerful rogue Thanatos. Either option excited Sherlock, primed him for the challenge. Warmed his blood from the ice that had settled into him in the last few months. Almost enough to melt the crystals which jarred and cut him every day. Just almost.

The prideful part of him—the part that fully acknowledged how much _better_ seeds were than regular people—relished going against a mortal who was so brilliant. That was the part of Sherlock Holmes that most people, all the _mortal humans_—the _nonseeds_—hated. He spent long hours trying to tamp this part of him down, but he wasn't always successful.

There was also the part of him that was responsible for ruling the dead. The part that had to make sure that the society formed by mores and laws seemed to adequately control the numbers of the dead—death had to make _some_ sort of sense to people, or else they quickly turned away from reason and lost themselves in superstitious methods of trying to ward it off. They had to think that they had a handle on it, that they'd studied death long enough that they knew how it happened. To let humans do otherwise was to invite chaos.

Moriarty was inviting chaos into that system. He felt it, and Mrs. Hudson felt it—she fretted about it too, being too deeply immersed in the murders to be able to distance herself from it all. Even John felt it, when they were out on the prowl on a case—nearly always raised hackles, and then taking to carrying around the illegal handgun usually kept in his dresser drawer even now. This was alarming, and pointed more towards Moriarty being a Thanatos, because John was ignorant of his new role in Sherlock's court. He was just picking up on the weird vibes, without actually know if there was anything wrong.

Though of course, the fates wouldn't speak to John, and neither would they speak to Sherlock—but they did speak to Mrs. Hudson and they said as much as Sherlock had thought.

The only way to change the stars of fate was to go to them and arrange the sparks to your own tastes. It was a long journey and a difficult task, but Sherlock had a duty to change the fates being spun out—just enough to make life feel safe and seem bearable to the mortals who teemed and seethed through the cities and towns of Britain.

Besides, if he focused all of his attention on Moriarty then the pangs of loneliness might stay that way just a little while longer. It wasn't a full melancholy, he told himself confidently. Not yet, at least. He didn't have the time to sink into that place of despair. He didn't have the energy either. Sometimes it occurred to him to use Mummy's method and essentially cheat.

All it would take would be to sit in plain sight, looking in need just enough—just pathetic enough, just lonely and wanting enough—for someone to take pity on him. It had worked for Mummy fairly alright, but it wasn't Sherlock's ideal solution. His parents hadn't been the best match, and though he knew that Mummy hadn't been spoiled for choice it worried him. He worried that he would make a poor choice, and be stuck with a woman who would be equally stuck with him.

John watched him with trusting and often amazed eyes as Sherlock threw himself into his work. Into searching for this villain called _Moriarty_. Though perhaps that might have been incredulity at the layers Sherlock piled on himself in an effort to stay warm. The air in their flat was freezing cold around his entire body, and John refused to turn up the thermostat any farther which was _cruel_ to a man so consumed with chills. Mummy had always said the melancholy was most easily diagnosed by an overwhelming and pervading cold—but melancholy was _not_ what Sherlock had.

It was just a _bit_ unrelentingly chilly.

Everywhere.

* * *

Greg always had his homicide cases sent to Barts. Always had, and always would—as long as Molly Hooper was working there. She was the best pathologist there, and she could also handle Sherlock Holmes which was a bonus. If he was to have Sherlock consulting on some of his cases, he needed someone who understood and dealt with the man. It was why Keith wasn't the greatest choice for forensics specialist: Sherlock and Keith loathed one another to the ends of the earth and beyond.

Keith because he felt that it was insulting to his work and abilities to have Sherlock come in and take over witness interviewing, evidence collection, and forensics in general. Sherlock because he had to vie for Greg's attention in the realm of forensic evidence, had to compete with Keith's conclusions and details. Greg Lestrade just wanted done with it sometimes, which is why he didn't let the coroner at the Met look at the bodies for his cases.

Molly had the credentials she needed to do work for the police, and she didn't have a vendetta against Sherlock. It often left Greg feeling overprotective of her. He didn't want Keith or Sally or even ruddy Sherlock Holmes to run her off. She was good at her job, and he appreciated her for that.

He was mentoring another detective and trying to instill the same feelings in him too. The idea that he could call Sherlock in if he was truly at a loss, the idea that he could send bodies from his cases to qualified pathologists rather than rely on just anyone. Darren Dimmock—who had, just possibly in Greg's mind, the worst name ever—was a bit resistant to it, but he was coming around. He would be a good detective someday, and that made Greg proud in a weird way.

Someday he wouldn't be able to keep up with the criminals he chased. Someday he wouldn't be as sharp as he was now—hell, at fifty three he was lucky for his continued athleticism and much more. His wife often teased him that he made her look like she'd married her boy-toy, which would make him smile if it had been a while since one of _her _affairs. Hell, it sometimes made him smile even then since it meant he had something in common with the men she took up with.

* * *

Review?


	6. Chapter 6

Many MANY thanks to the following reviewers of last chapter: Rocking the Redhead, Elliesmeow, thefadingdaysofMay, Pip-2250, AngelQueen01, Jillianwatson1058, doomed2fallinlovewasociopath , broadwayb, Fayth3, CreamoCrop, and a guest. I love to hear from all of you, though I do admit that at the moment with how my personal life is going I don't have much time or energy to answer each review individually at the moment. If I did I'd be choosing answering over writing, and without any writing getting done this story wouldn't ever update...Speaking of those:

Next chapter is going to be the beginning of The Plot as we'll know it. Or at least it will be if Sherlock cooperates with me, which he sometimes doesn't. Interwebzcookies if you catch a Very Certain reference and tell me that you caught it in your review :) I actually am looking forward to people beginning to spot who is in such and such role, or who fulfills such and such role. Our dear Greg Lestrade has been spotted out by at least one reviewer...

I don't know the ETA on the next chapter but I'm hoping to have it up soonish (within the next week or so). Love all of you!

Also yes: I did change my pen-name this week. Yes, it was difficult and sort of alarming and weird. But I am getting to the point where I don't need to cling to being weird to get me through the day, and I'm getting to the point where I can say that my time at an ROTC school was freakishly awful and has left me screwed up in all sorts of ways. I'm getting to the point where I am comfortable cutting that part of my life out of my day to day.

...Apologies for the random introspection. Y'all came here for fic...maybe I oughtta let you proceed...yeah.

GOSH WHY DOES ANYONE PUT UP WITH ME? SORRY FOR THE EDITING FAIL. FORGOT THE BREAKS. PLEASE FORGIVE.

Enjoy!

* * *

Jim breathed in the London air flowing freely through his flat. The windows were thrown open wide, and the lacy curtains he'd gotten wafted gently in the breezes. He _adored_ London, for all that it wasn't home quite yet. There were so many things _to_ love now, after only two months spent in his exile. There were the criminal organizations, with their delightful little schemes, and then there were the car accidents and the cancer wards—deaths of all sorts all needing to be sorted. It was his calling, and it was so good to let it call him here of all places.

So far he'd confined himself to just London. He would do larger work for Sherlock when it was welcome. Home still stung him occasionally, despite his best efforts to remain jovial. Ireland had been so ideal, no chance for the gods to meddle in mortal politics, given that the region was so divided. He'd grown up both immersed and distanced from it, too, which had left him impartial in a way that few Thanatoi had the chance to become so early in their lives.

It was all nicely boiled down to simple facts for Jim.

People died—that's what they **_did_**. Regardless of their frankly bizarre religions, their colors of eyes, skin, hair, the place they lived and how much they earned in whatever work they took on. People. Died. Jim's implicit and all-encompassing understanding of this had in part been his downfall back home. Ireland's cold and shadowy courts were not so modern with their views on things which were none of their business.

He missed that court back in Ireland but he could get used to London and Britain. Wherever he could do his work in peace—communing with the Fates in the privacy of his flat—he could call home. His upbringing had left him able to adapt—to cling to himself in times of change and strife. All he had to do was show himself as Thanatos and open Sherlock's eyes to the lovely Persephone who'd already quietly installed herself at the detective's side—unnoticed—for at the least months or perhaps even years.

Watching his curtains blow in the breeze from the window, Jim decided he would play gay during that meeting. He'd _have_ to, really, to avoid Sherlock losing his temper. The man would be furious with everyone save for Molly Hooper. The woman had long ago made her peace, it looked like, with not having sunshine, kittens, and flowers when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. Hopefully the detective would pick up on that and move right along to hiring Jim.

Molly Hooper brought a smile to his face, though, despite himself. She was as lovely as unexpected flowers in spring. Unlooked for, startling, and strikingly beautiful surrounded still by winter. A lot of people looked at death like winter, Jim had found many years ago, and they forgot that the season was always—always—followed by spring. He had never been there, but Molly Hooper was probably a lot like what was after death. Unexpected, and lovely.

Sherlock would definitely be caught off guard, and likely would be instantly possessive. Playing gay was the safest way to stay alive in this case. The 'office romance' Molly was likely calling their little relationship would be enough to bring most Hades to murder or worse. He did not think that Sherlock would be in that utterly understanding minority, he really didn't—and Jim knew he was good, but he wasn't going to bet that he could beat Sherlock in a fight to the death of some sort.

And that, coming from the god who brought death in his wake, was saying something.

* * *

"Did you hear what is going on in Ireland?" Mycroft scowled, but it didn't show in his voice as he replied. Pierre was always a bit of an arse, despite how warily he treated Mycroft and his people. The man was awful to deal with, but at least he was a great deal smarter than his processor who had been _accidentally_ eliminated some years ago.

"We can hardly ignore it, can we?"

"Word is, my friend, that he's taken up residence in London. Now, if you would consider forcing—"

"There is no need to do that," Mycroft said shortly, the scowl showing through this time. "The situation is being monitored. I am using it to advantage, if you must know, and so far everything is going according to plan."

The silence on the line was deafening. Of course Pierre would have a motive like this, Mycroft should have been quicker and remembered it before even answering the phone when informed whose call he was taking. The French had one last hold-out for full inter-court cooperation and of course Pierre would see the Irish situation as ideal to solve everything. But that kind of thinking had been exactly what had led Mummy and Mrs. Hudson to relocate to Britain. Mycroft would not fall prey to the easy—if blood spattered—way of doing things.

"If you feel like you know what you're doing, old friend."

"Thank you Pierre," Mycroft said with no warmth to the words at all. He hung up the phone and rubbed wearily at his head. The woman—his Athena—spoke up behind him, her voice musical and powerful. Mycroft didn't think long or hard about how she'd gotten into his study without his notice. Sometimes he didn't want to know things like that.

"Not replacing me already, ice man?" Her small but fiercely powerful hands latched onto his shoulders and started working the knots out that she encountered.

"No, you're no longer the source of my headaches."

"What's the problem—you can tell me," she pried, sternly pressing her knuckles into the tighter bunches of muscle on his upper back. Mycroft closed his eyes, regulating his breath to resist tensing up as she endeavored to help him.

"I'll tell you if it turns out that way. If you're willing to wait, you'll wait on a call from Magda." The pleasant—if roughly thorough—massage paused for a full second while the woman behind him digested what he'd said.

"Magda? That sweet old woman can't possibly be the source of your tension…" her mind was as wickedly quick as his own. Mycroft leaned back into her touch, relaxing in the earnest manner that she was willing him to.

"She isn't, at least not in full. Pierre is trying to game me into causing an incident with the Irish. "

That shocked a laugh out of her, bitter and exultant all at once.

"Well I'm sure that I can cause a much more interesting incident than what that old badger could ever imagine on his best days. Tell Magda to ring me when she needs me," she said with a final sweep of her hands over his shoulder blades.

Mycroft nodded, and then her hands and the warmth of her body were both gone from him. She would wander back when it suited her, and that was fine with him. There was no one he answered to, and she answered only to him—as did a great many others—and neither of them saw a reason to explain their relationship. Not even to each other. With a roll of his arms to settle his muscles and appreciate the quick backrub, Mycroft reached for his phone once again and dialed Anthea's number. He needed to check on how his brother was doing—and if things weren't progressing as Mycroft wanted them to, he would have her pass along a message to the appropriate people.

He hoped that she didn't get cross with him for bringing in his Athena on this. She so wanted everything to go by the book with Sherlock's problem of solitude. Mycroft, however, knew better. Things had changed—though the Grecian myths best explained the current system, and lent many names to the positions therein, he was looking to the future. Someday the words and notions of Hades and Hermes and Haphaestus would all go out the window like the names before had gone. Names like Persephone were some of the last lingering ones—and he knew full well that these names were used only in Europe. The courts of the rest of the world were as colorful and varied as the places they shadowed. Mummy had once threatened to make him learn all of the other names and duties—in some places a person like himself might also be expected to watch over and guide childbirth of all things on top of what he already took care of—but eventually his mother had relented.

She didn't have much pity in her, but she was a fair woman. Sherlock was learning the names as punishment for being particularly vicious to Father, but Mycroft himself had done nothing.

* * *

Jim had lunch with Molly, jovially pretending to be slightly ill at her stilted discussion of why the corpses of pigs were used in forensics to determine intensity of blows and give of flesh from bullets and knives and hands. She'd been genuinely sorry for him, fluttering her hands with anxiety—there wasn't much to do to comfort someone's upset stomach after all. Jim assured her that he would be fine after all and then he called _places_ for his grand scheme's main scene.

It had had to be a day when Sherlock was with his new Cerberus—a man he was strangely protective of, though the man was strangely protective of a lot of people. His landlady—who by all accounts was a sweet, doddering sort, though Jim had never laid eyes on her—and the homeless and hapless detectives and even his awful brother. Mycroft had been _less_ than helpful a dozen years ago, but that was beside the point. London was home now, he would make his peace with the elder Holmes.

The reason John Watson had to be there would be to make sure that he somehow accompanied Sherlock and Molly back to Baker Street—what Thanatos took, and what Cerberus guarded, was forever within the dominion of the Hades they each claimed as master. Jim had no master, but he could buy into calling Sherlock his boss. He could stand that.

Molly was excited to introduce him to Sherlock Holmes—_Oh, he's great fun when he's not…um…well, he'll be on good behavior today because I left him a few biscuits in the fridge that are gone now. No one else steals out of the lunches but him, and I'd put them—in—well—let's just go, shall we?_ It was sweet how she was trying to get over Sherlock, trying to not show that she was using Jim as some sort of confidence building bounce-back. She was a good person, and she would make a better Persephone.

She greatly admired Sherlock already, constantly telling Jim just how brilliant the man was despite being in that made-up profession of his. As they walked down the sterile, old hallways of Bart's Jim followed her every gesture avidly. He really—in complete seriousness—could not believe that a man like Sherlock Holmes had missed such a gem of a woman. So perfectly and utterly ordinary seeming, but a seed of such quality and strength that he had never encountered in his entire hundred years of life.

Maybe, he thought as Molly led him to the pathology and forensics wing, it was the fact that she was so _right_ that Sherlock had missed her altogether. There were no purely human perfections in a good Persephone—the person had to be so in tune with the mortal world that the flaws they carried sometimes masked the fact that they were a seed of any quality at all. Jim intended to see that this seed was grown with care—he did care for Molly Hooper.

Though he was throwing her disguise off of her, he would personally see to it that Sherlock treated her as he ought to treat such a gift of a companion.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

Thank you to all who favorited and added this story to alerts since Monday's update, I love you guys. I also love my reviewers! AngelQueen01, Elliesmeow, ThefadingdaysofMay, Pip-2250, my recurring lone guest, katdemon1895, kawoosh, broadwayb, hiyas (HI!), Rocking the Redhead, LaurelynFaye, and CreamoCrop. Wow—I can't even. And JimWithAHeart shall remain the constant, don't fret, do trust. His problems back in Ireland shall be revealed, don't fret, do trust. Also katdemon1895 you get so many frickin' cookies it ain't even funny. Not all of your review is spot on but there are parts, parts indeed.

As I said earlier this week, this chapter introduces The Plot as we'll all know it. Again, I apologize for not individually replying to reviews. I'm on a bit of a downswing, emotionally, and don't exactly have the energy to reply to all of you in PMs. But I do love you, which is why I'm trying to answer all of you as best I can with the above acknowledgements and the like.

Love you all, enjoy!

* * *

The lab was normally kept quite cool. Sherlock, before his fate had started to turn his life into a living hell, enjoyed it because he didn't feel as stifled by the heat which often surrounded people in a haze. With blood and tissue just a bit colder than average meant that temperatures which others found comfortable might sometimes be irritatingly warm for him. Though sometimes it was just the opposite, that he was fine and the normal humans around him shivered and their flesh rose up in goose bumps.

All of this didn't mean that he enjoyed his newfound status of melancholy—he had admitted it to himself last week that what he had was melancholy and that he had effectively run out of time to find a companion for himself—and the associated frigid temperatures which ghosted over his skin. The only thing that this served was the fact that the warmth of regular humans shocked him like a blister—and his only solace in _this_ was that when he did run across a Persephone he would know her immediately. There were very few people now who he could tolerate the closeness of, and all of them were seeds.

It was in this state of mind and being that he met Jim from IT, a meeting which completely ruined his entire day.

Molly Hooper had been having a little office romance. Easily understood from how often she was taking her lunch _to_ Bart's but eating it _away_ from Bart's—a boyfriend who liked the idea of lunch hour picnics. Sherlock had never expected her to decide to bring the lucky man to meet himself and John—he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that while he found Molly attractive and sweet, she was far too _normal_ for him to take up with. It would be cruel to start anything with a nonseed only to fall into melancholy and find another companion—or even to fail the expectation that they grow old together. Back then Sherlock had known all too well from his brother's many failed experiences that it was murderously hard to watch a loved one age and pass away while gray still hadn't touched one's own head.

He'd often supposed that his brother was lucky in that he could love many at once and love them deeply while he had them—even if he only had them for a night. Sherlock would have no such boon.

Jim from IT was the rogue Thanatos—part of him was disappointed that _Moriarty_ wasn't strictly human—who had been plaguing Mrs. Hudson's daily toils and had occupied a lot of Sherlock's mind recently. He was Irish, and he was incredibly powerful. Sherlock had always hesitated to call it _magic_ or the like, but there was a _feeling_ of power which accompanied more accomplished seeds. The stronger they were the less human they were able to seem—particularly seeds whose purpose would never be dispensed with. There might not always be a need for Hades, but Thanatos would always find occupation.

It was as he surveyed the man Molly had brought with her that he realized—_stupidstupidstupid_—that her presence hadn't shocked him. Despite being just feet from him, Molly didn't cause him pain. Jim from IT was staring at him over her shoulder, challenge in his eyes while he had a hand on her back. Sherlock felt his stomach clench in horror.

He had waited to find a Persephone for so long so that, when he was forced to take someone, he would at least _know_ her. She would know _him_, too, not have some random stranger appear and abscond with her. Not only had he put that task off too long, but he had managed to miss someone right under his nose who was probably the strongest Persephone seed he'd ever, _ever_ encountered. They were extremely hard to spot—it was easier to spot Demeters, and from there try to find the accompanying Persephone. That had been Sherlock's plan, up until this very moment as he stared at Jim _Moriarty._

Jim would take her away, and she would never be gotten back. Sherlock had vaguely heard of trouble from the Irish court, but he'd never imagined a new Hades who'd fallen to melancholy of such a sort that they'd sent out their Thanatos on a mission to find them a Persephone. If Jim took Molly away to Ireland somehow—drawing out the _office romance_ just a little farther perhaps?—then she would never be able to return to Britain fully.

Sometimes, just _sometimes_, Sherlock reviled the fates in the privacy of his mind. They were unknowable by save the occasional Thanatos, and they were often at their cruelest when attempting some sort of kindness. Molly Hooper was destined to be _someone's_ Persephone and he was being given the last possible chance to at least minimize her trauma at the experience.

A Persephone had to be pried from the rough, but in that lay the risk of damaging what made them worth having—his own parents had argued relentlessly and fought often. His father had hated his fate and had never stopped hating it even once for the entire time he'd spent with Mummy. Mummy had been too rough in obtaining her Persephone, and that was that. Sherlock knew, as he verbally split Molly away from her boyfriend, that he was probably going to end up like them despite his best efforts.

John helped, unknowingly of course, when he urged Sherlock to go after Molly. _Yes—go get her. Bring her back to Baker Street for the afternoon. Let Mrs. Hudson give her tea, let her shed a few tears there. I'll think of a better plan later._

Molly only ever went a few places to have a cry while at the hospital, and he found her within minutes in the women's lavatory on the second floor. It was often deserted, which is why she chose it. If Sherlock had been inclined to, it was secluded enough that he might have opened the window and escaped with Molly that way—bury himself so deeply in some foreign country for a few weeks that he might as well have taken them both to the land of the dead for all people in London would know.

But that would not stake enough of a claim on her, he would have no ground to stand on against any comers. _And if there is no claim, there will be claims from others soon enough. She's absolutely perfect_.

"Molly—Molly I'm…I'm sorry. That was cruel, and hateful and—" he started, barely managing to keep a coherent thought in his head when the absolute _warmth_ of her flooded his senses. The melancholy was there to starve him of pleasant temperatures—of comfort. It would force him to retreat from everything initially and then even that would be unbearable and he would seek out a companion to share his _quite_ long life with.

"You're so cruel—you always say such awful things," she'd interrupted him, and he struggled to keep up with her words through the haze of _notinpain_ that surrounded him. "So what if he's gay, he's nice to me. Which is a sight better than how you are on a given day." She wasn't crying, though her eyes were red and just almost watery. How had he not _seen_ her before this—the question baffled him and angered him at turns. Sherlock stuck out his hand, trying to make peace with her. It would, he knew, become a familiar gesture soon enough.

"I _am_ sorry, Molly," he said when she just stared at his outstretched palm. A woman opened the door with all the confidence of going into a nearly private bathroom to steal a cigarette but on seeing the two of them—Sherlock with his hand outstretched, looking over the shoulder of his dark blazer, Molly curled around her elbows protectively, her eyes red from almost-tears—quickly retreated. Her nicotine fix could wait ten minutes. That broke the ice, though, and had Molly putting her hand against Sherlock's in acceptance of whatever truce she'd decided to take from him.

Sherlock smiled—_on_ at her hand in his—_off_ as he turned them both to go out the door. She couldn't have seen his face, but if she had he knew she would've been tipped off that _something _was the matter. He was sure that his expression was like thunder, and though he knew full well that that wasn't the way he ought to be seen escorting Molly Hooper out of the hospital with John Watson at their heels he couldn't stop himself. The _audacity_ of Jim Moriarty—to plan on kidnapping a woman and then parading her right in front of the only people who could stop him.

And the Thanatos from Ireland had been planning on taking Sherlock's favorite pathologist away, too, which was the final straw. Not only was Molly perfect as a companion for him, he liked her for herself—her skills, her sweetness to him. Very few people were ever kind in their words or thoughts to the gods of death, and he knew that his own manifestation was just as or more unliked as the ancient man who'd given his name to the profession. Grudging respect was usually the most he could get from people—true friendship and caring weren't to be his.

Except from, if he played his cards right and wasn't too awful, whoever stayed with him as a companion. Whoever stayed with him as his Persephone.

* * *

John felt that Sherlock had had a major breakthrough with finding out that Molly's boyfriend was Moriarty. He of course only picked this up from how vicious Sherlock had been in breaking up Molly Hooper's little office romance—there really was no need, if he was only going to insist on personally escorting the pathologist back to Baker Street and stationing her to have tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson downstairs. The hunted look in his flatmate's eyes as he hurried them back home was also a major tip off—if John wasn't wrong, then Sherlock looked almost frightened. Wary at the very least.

He didn't breathe a word of his conclusions while Molly was around, though, because he knew that after an afternoon like the one Sherlock had put her through the last thing _he_ would've wanted in her situation would be to hear was that someone he cared about was some sort of mass murderer. Even if the murders were only facilitated by the man, they were still deaths that wouldn't have happened without his aid. Molly was a tender soul despite her profession and that would devastate her. He installed her with Mrs. Hudson nearly as soon as they'd walked through the door.

Sherlock meanwhile seemed to have dropped the Moriarty problem from his mind entirely. He'd just been hanging up the phone with Greg Lestrade—sometimes John wondered if Sherlock merely resisted saying _Greg_ or in fact did not actually know the man's first name—when John had managed to get up the stairs. He liked Mrs. Hudson and her baking, he really did, but he needed to supervise his flatmate more at the moment. Molly had also been looking like she needed a female shoulder to cry on, and he'd left them to it.

"I'm going on vacation next week, John. Too much work and no play makes—oh you know the rest. Moriarty isn't some demon man haunting the shadows. I realize now that I've made him up—boredom, the like. Tell Molly, if you see her before she goes, that she can spend as long as she likes here."

"But what about the—you were so awful to her back at—"

"Stress can bring out awful things in me to those who don't deserve it. I've overtired myself, it would seem—as frightening as that is."

John was quite lost for words at this turn of events—but his gut told him to roll with it. Sometimes he felt something like a premonition come up on him and he'd followed its lead long enough that he wasn't about to stop now. Sherlock must have his reasons, and John would have to accept that. Perhaps the road was too dangerous for two, even if two were safer than one, and Sherlock needed to hunt Moriarty abroad. They had had quite the staring match over Molly's head back at the lab.

Yes, that must be it—this crazy murderer, _Moriarty_, had been pointing out that he could get to Sherlock at Barts and so could get to him anywhere. Sherlock was taking the fight away from those he cared about so that when things went down there wouldn't be any weak spots in Sherlock's defenses. The soldier in John understood this reasoning and so he didn't press his flatmate for more details about his 'vacation.'

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	8. Chapter 8

So thank you to all those who added this to alerts and favorites, and extra thanks to those who also reviewed! Thank you Unicorn Lady, Pip-2250, katdemon1895, Adi Who is Also Mou, Elliesmeow, broadwayb, Rocking the Redhead, ThefadingdaysofMay, EllaLewis, a guest, kawoosh, and LaurelynFaye!

No real news about Sherlock's vacation, patience. Also Lestrade shall return, doncha worry now...It was also commented that Jim's plan kinda blew up in his face. About that...wait and see. Wait and see. For those waiting on Jim's backstory, this here chapter will hopefully clear some things for you!

Adi: I SO WANT TO READ YOUR STORY, but I'm putting it off for the same reason you did mine. Thank you for reading and giving me the chance, I will most definitely return the favor...

Well, without further ado,

Enjoy!

* * *

The boat had been awful. Jim had never once left his beloved Ireland—not in a hundred years had he stepped foot from it. While he'd been familiar with the harbor—drunken sailors falling into the water was a common death in earlier decades—he had never once really ventured onto any of the boats or ferries. His escape from the court had spurred him on—his anger giving him determination, and a sliver of fear giving him direction. When he'd gotten to Britain, he had been relieved to once again be on dry land and visible.

It was a slight trick, invisibility, but hard to maintain for long periods of time. Flashing from place to place—in order to fulfill one's duties across an entire region—was easier but that wouldn't have worked on the ferry boat. Invisibility was difficult because you had to be unseen by non-seeds at first—also you had to avoid getting jostled or bumped by anyone unaware of your presence because that was right around the time your invisibility would flicker and putter out.

Boats were terribly tight in regards to available space, but Jim had managed. Barely, but he'd managed.

He always managed.

The court back home in Ireland had been turned against him by his own Hades. Biddy was naïve and easily led by her upbringing. She'd been impressionable when there had been those troubles in the 80s, and hadn't been properly trained by her mentor. Jim had been obstructed from doing his job at nearly every turn for a solid two decades, and then once again in the last few years—his Hades felt that he was being unfair and choosy with who he marked for passage to the land of death. She thought that there was some sort of war between the two of them, after having seen him at his work in Belfast. She thought he was some sort of _nationalist_—which is exactly how Jim found out that his Hades hadn't been properly removed from the influences of human politics.

Jim had tried to explain to her, time and time again, that he looked after the geographic extent of the main island—that he saw no Ireland or Northern Ireland, and he didn't care about unionists or nationalists or Protestants or Catholics. _People die, that's what people DO_. Biddy hadn't understood, and had prevented him from carrying out certain designated fates—and when that happened, when there was no Thanatos to guide how mass numbers of people died, that was when violence would spin out of control. Biddy had, by obstructing him at his job, perpetuated the violence she accused him of supporting.

She had come to him, just before he fled, and let him know her intent to find a replacement Thanatos. That he was too biased, and that his indiscriminate violence had to be curbed. It was that word she used—_curbed_—that had had Jim frightened for his life. She thought that he was a dog to be put down, rather than see her own weakness in training. Jim had run for his life after that, going on rumors that the British needed a new Thanatos.

It was lucky that he'd been so fortunate to make himself useful to Sherlock Holmes so early on. The man had indeed recognized Molly Hooper as a seed who had the potential to become a fantastic companion. There was also a little wistful affection for the man in her, which served everyone's purposes beautifully. Looking at Sherlock over Molly's shoulder he'd felt pride well up in him—he was going to be working for this brilliant Hades who was so detached from the mortal world, so clinical about it, that he had nearly overlooked a Persephone stationed right at his own elbow.

The nice flat would perhaps have to go—he would maybe move into the neighborhood Sherlock was stationed in. The British seemed to enjoy a neat little enclave, and Jim didn't mind buying into that to create a better atmosphere with who he would be working with. It would be a shame when he had to take Sherlock's nice landlady but that wasn't any time soon so perhaps everyone would forgive him? Certainly Sherlock would, and perhaps even Molly and the Cerberus—John or James or whatever. The Cerberus—_John_, yes _John_—would doubly understand. Possibly. He'd been a soldier of some sort.

It was such a balanced place, and would be more so under Molly's guidance. She had a way with curbing the bad behaviors Sherlock Holmes seemed to fall into sometimes. Not letting him have free reign of her staffroom fridge for one thing, but also including an apple once in a while for him. Nothing would tempt a Hades more—and Jim didn't care who the Hades was or where they were from or _anything_—than fresh fruit. They could practically live on the stuff.

* * *

Molly liked having tea with Mrs. Hudson. The woman was generous with her biscuits and her tea was lovely. Sherlock did have the occasional heart, she knew, as Mrs. Hudson griped about his hours and his rudeness. They both agreed that whatever paltry apologies he composed were enough since they came so rarely. The older lady seemed particularly interested in why Molly was at Baker Street in the first place—she'd quietly told her what Sherlock had said and how awful he'd been.

Mrs. Hudson's sympathy was effusive if a little leading. As though she was trying to encourage Molly to put her heart on the line more than she had in the past concerning Sherlock, as though his reaction had been one of jealousy rather than simple awfulness. Sherlock's landlady seemed bent on getting words of affection for the detective out of Molly but the pathologist persevered. It didn't matter that she cared for him, he didn't care for her.

It was grasping and desperate and sad—she wanted more out of Sherlock than he seemed even able to give. It was time to admit that to herself and move on from him, no matter how many times she failed. Molly felt it to be highly unfair to expect Sherlock to change for her, to both of them. So she—as gently as she could—let Mrs. Hudson's hopes down. His actions were his own selfish need to figure out and explain the world to those around him, and they would continue because he thought he was helping rather than hurting.

After that the old lady had gushed over Molly's cat, saying that she'd always been very agreeable to cats and that if Molly ever needed a pet-sitter then she should know who to call. When she'd eventually left Baker Street with John—who claimed he was just on his way out for a pint with an old friend and that he could easily walk her to her place—her purse was full of biscuits and recipes for cobbler. It was nice to have someone treat her so kindly, especially an older woman like Mrs. Hudson. So many people would get skittish or even cruel to Molly when they found out about her profession.

Sherlock only knew her _because_ of her profession, so that didn't count. John only knew her because of Sherlock and besides he was a doctor—he knew better than most that people died. Flip was a murderous king of the nighttime jungle of London rooftops so he didn't find his human weird. Sweet old ladies like Mrs. Hudson though? They weren't typically the type who would share old baking secrets with Molly Hooper.

"I'm going to try baking this weekend, Flip," Molly said once she was home. John had made good on his word and walked her right to her door. There'd been a worried pinch to his face, but whatever bothered him he kept to himself. Flip meowed and purred as he wound in between her ankles—his food dish must have been empty, he wasn't usually so affectionate like this right when she got home.

"You'll like baking, kitten," she said, scooping up the cat and snuggling him against his will, "there's grease and butter and eggs. I might have to lock you up if you try to eat too much of it, though." He dug his head into her hand as she stroked him, scratching her nails at his ears and under his chin. Molly smiled, glad that at least one man in her life actually cared for her affections towards him. Jim would make a good friend, she decided, and she wouldn't break up with him because Sherlock called him gay. That would be cruel, especially if he really wasn't gay. Who was she to tell him who to date?

* * *

Sherlock had John escort Molly home, refusing to go himself for the simple fact that while the journey with her would be made bearable by her presence—the return home would sap him of much of his energy. Energy he _needed_ if he was going to save Molly from being kidnapped to Ireland. It wasn't unheard of to send your underlings looking for your better half, he well knew, but he had never expected to see another court's _Thanatos_ smiling so triumphantly over the shoulder of a sweet woman who didn't know what was being decided without her knowledge or consent. It made sense, though.

Thanatoi were as jealous as any Hades in what they took on and guarded. What each of them took couldn't be brought back: what the god of death took with them belonged completely to who they called king. People, pets, trinkets, and even _seeds_. Mycroft and Mummy's old adage haunted his thoughts: all lives end, all hearts are broken, and ultimately nothing is too sacred. It kept Sherlock awake for most of the night, fitfully pacing around the entire flat, that if Jim _Moriarty_ hadn't stopped by to crow over his catch, Sherlock would have been none the wiser. Molly would have been spirited off, never to fully return, and that would have been the end of it. Sherlock, as much as he chafed against his brother's personality, knew that he couldn't cause an international incident trying to steal an already stolen Persephone. It just couldn't be done—not even if he brought Mrs. Hudson _and_ John—and it would upset Mycroft _so much_.

Mummy would have approved, of course, but then again she had been rather viciously to the point during her time as Hades. There was also that business back in France from her _early days_ that _still_ wasn't resolved, even after two hundred years of trying to bleed them of their bitterness. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy always shrugged it off, forcing the British court to shrug it off as well, but not everyone was so cool with their tempers. Sherlock didn't even want to _know_ what sorts of hoops Mycroft had had to jump through to in order to have friendly relations with the French again.

All night, while he paced, he also texted furiously. He had to arrange it all perfectly—snatch Molly to safety from Jim Moriarty, keep her with him long enough to form some sort of emotional bond with her, and then finally endure the agony of being alone once _again_ in the hopes that she would wander back to him. Such was his fate, and little would change it. There were certain things in this world that were mercurial, possessing enough actual momentum that they could be predicted and possibly changed. John's fate was like that—he was a bit fate_less_ in that sense. The world was open to whatever interpretation John Watson might will it towards.

Not so for Sherlock Holmes. Certain seeds were free, and certain others were not—the fates had long ago plotted out this path, or one like it, for him. The most choice he had was to walk it while spitting ire or with accepting grace. He was truly his mother's child, though, for he forced a third choice split between the original two. Just because he wanted to save Molly didn't mean he had to be 'good' or 'accepting' about it.

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	9. Chapter 9

A huge thank you, first off, to the reviewers since last update: hermione-amelia-rose1479, Pip-2250, Rocking the Redhead, AussieMaelstrom, Elliesmeow, ThefadingdaysofMay, broadwayb, hihiyas, katdemon1895, and a guest! Hearing your theories or your encouragement is really great, you don't even know :)

This chapter is very Molly heavy because of reasons. I'm also hoping that you take parts of it and, if you follow me on tumblr, put together something very key to the rest of the story. So yeah.

Enjoy!

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Flip helped her make her coffee that morning, nearly knocking her cream over in the process of slinking along her countertop. Molly bent down to nuzzle his head and he butted against her cheek affectionately. She and Flip were more brother and sister than human and pet. Her father's last gift was one of enduring affection and love, a way of giving himself and Molly a few more years together than the cancer had allowed. Giving her cat one last overly affectionate hug, Molly hurried off to work for the day.

At the morgue she met a solemn faced Greg Lestrade who stood beside the body of a teenaged boy who'd died under suspicious circumstances. Molly put on her coat and new gloves to open up the bag so she could have a look. She let a sad smile tug on her lips, eyes flicking towards the few places which outwardly showed certain types of poisons. That was nearly always the first thing to explain a suspicious death—accidental or not. The faster samples went to toxicology, the quicker the results.

"Any drug use, that you know of?" that was the second usually. The detective inspector shook his head. Molly pressed her lips into a straight line, her eyes focusing on the boy in front of her.

"He would've grown up fairly tall, don't you think?" She knew whenever young people came by Greg, he couldn't help but see his own children's faces. Molly didn't answer his question though, just zipped the bag back up and wheeled the gurney towards the body lockers. Once the boy, Aaron Emerson, was fully put away she stripped her gloves and turned towards Greg again. She just barely caught the wistful look on his face before it cleared to focus on her.

"He would've grown up quite tall, I think. Would've played a good game of cricket at uni, even." She spoke with a soft smile on her face. Greg's eyebrows lifted briefly and then settled back into a determined line. She'd given him a life to fight for in the case. The man functioned best when he knew what he was fighting for. Now he was fighting for a boy who would never play cricket at uni with his mates.

"He's in line, but I should get to him in the next day or so. I'll call you to let you know."

With that Greg left after fully signing the body into the hospital morgue under Molly's care. Cases with kids always haunted him, worrying him that his own kids weren't as safe as he could make them. Man was a bulldog concerning their whereabouts; something which Molly thought was sweet.

The morgue was quiet save for the click of her tools and the squelch of guts as she worked. When her cell beeped a text—a cute little Paul McCartney jingle—she ignored it. It was Jim and they weren't due to see each other today. She'd told him yesterday that she was skipping lunch to work on several police inquiry bodies. He was texting her either something throw-away sweet or breaking up with her and so either way it didn't matter.

The smartphone pinged a few emails, her usual alert for her lunch break, and stayed silent the rest of the afternoon. The door swung open at around three and she looked up out of habit. Sherlock Holmes was making his way towards her intake files, flipping through the folders with a vague interest. He must have been quite bored at home, Molly decided. Since he didn't walk in demanding things from her, she continued on with what she'd been doing.

"Is that Stanley Crowell, the old janitor for the pediatrics floor?" he came up next to her, hands carefully tucked behind his back. He'd shrugged off his great coat and blazer, standing in a comfortably loose dress shirt. Not his usual, but Molly found him rather more attractive this way. She couldn't believe he could even move in his usual shirts.

"Yes—donated his body. Cancer, riddled straight through. Says—said—_said_ he wanted to help some doctor somewhere save someone, and if this was the way to do it then this was the way it would be done."

"Such a talent at remembering the minutia," Sherlock complimented softly, taking a step away from her to stare at the organs she'd so far removed. Molly took a steadying breath, waiting for him to follow that up with something insensitive, and wasn't disappointed. Sherlock rarely failed to excel in things he was good at.

"Is it hard working on cancer-deaths? Your father died of cancer if I remember. Six years ago."

Molly froze. She'd never told Sherlock about her father's death, _never_. The day, the cause, the duration—not a word of it had ever escaped her lips. It must have been some unconscious thing she did that only Sherlock Holmes could see, and she'd forgotten how unsettling it could be when he found something so well hidden. Or thought to be hidden. Sherlock straightened up, staring at her silently over the organ dishes for a long moment until Molly met his eyes. He broke their gaze first, starting to speak rapidly.

"John is indisposed for the afternoon, and I find I need a medical eye more often than not—would you be willing to assist? You can leave a note that I upset you somehow, Mike will believe you. We'll have to leave soon to make sure we get there before dark."

"Where are we going that I'm forging a note for?" Molly went back to working as she spoke, being nearly done. Out of the corner of her eye she could tell that Sherlock was watching her hands, completely unruffled by the blood and mess. Her heart hurt—here was a man who wasn't bothered by the work she did, and she could never have him. That was, she decided, the main reason she'd gone out with Jim. Because Jim was boring and ordinary and didn't like to see the gory parts of life like Molly did. Best get used to boring and ordinary sooner than later.

"Never mind the note, I'll call him to come in and finish up for you. No doubt Mr. Crowell's head will need to be…examined…and I've no time for that. Are you coming or not?"

Molly raised her bloody gloves in surrender, rolling her eyes at him.

"Yes—yes, else there'll be no peace. I'll just keep working until Mike gets here though if you don't mind. I'll at least earn the skiving off, thank you." Sherlock's smile was feral—the feral smile he always had when he was on a case that was particularly exciting for him. Molly would ask later on where and what was so important that he needed an assistant but couldn't drag John from his obligations. Doctor Watson could be quite easy to persuade to skive off and go adventuring with Sherlock.

"Mike, hi—yes. Yes—right this instant would be preferable but I suppose a half hour is all we'll get—No." Sherlock hung up his phone and grabbed his blazer to put it on. Once it was buttoned and straightened to his satisfaction, he started moving around the room putting things away. It was as though he'd memorized a lab tech's cleaning regimen—he already knew how to work everything but Molly had never actually known him to know where it all went. Molly glanced at him occasionally as she tugged and snipped and weighed bits of Mr. Crowell. Much of the old janitor was going towards research of the formation of his cancer cells, particularly the metastasized tumors. He would have been happy, Molly decided with a small smile directed at his dead face, he would have been proud to help in such a way.

Sherlock, once the morgue was in pristine condition, moved on towards collecting her things—putting her mp3 player in her bag, winding up the headphones attached to it. Fishing for her lipstick in her desk drawer.

"Sherlock, I came as quickly as I could—are you quite sure that—"

"Yes. Come now, man, suit up—the janitor's head won't reveal his brain on its own. Molly…?"

"Oh—yes—um, well. Thank you Mike, um, I—"

"No need, Molly, no need. I completely understand how much you need—I mean in light of—"

"_Molly_." Sherlock had her bag and was standing impatiently by the door. Molly nodded and quickly stripped off her gloves and got ready for the outside world again and a few minutes later bid Mike a quiet goodbye. His face was sweet and pitying as he scrubbed up and said his own goodbye, and his wish that she would keep in touch. Molly said she would—after all she would have to make up for skiving off, and Mike would probably appreciate having an evening off to spend at home with his family in the near future. She'd make it up to him soon, she decided.

"So, where are we going?"

Sherlock's smile was brilliant outside on the sidewalk as he took her hand and wrapped it around his elbow.

"Dover—well, near Dover. Man contacted me about the idea that someone wants him to think his fishing boat is possessed, wants me down there to figure out why or at least how it is covered in dead fish every morning."

"Sherlock, I don't know anything about fish or fishing."

"Yes, well neither does John. I need more eyes, John isn't here, so," he patted her hand and gave her one of his rare genuine smiles, "here you are, and here we go." With that he produced two passes for the tube, and led them down the nearest entrance with sure steps.

* * *

Mycroft had done as his brother asked and planted the car. It was Sherlock's actual car, but he so rarely drove it that it mostly stayed in Mycroft's care. It was useful to occasionally have a car that didn't smell new and had obvious wear on the tires. Only fools used brand new cars in intelligence, and Mycroft was no fool. His brother was, but that couldn't be helped.

He'd gotten the call late last night—by the background noise, Sherlock had gone up to the roof of his flats to have a moment of privacy—and had of course stayed up the rest of the night to see his end of the bargain done. It was easy enough—bully some visas out of the French, politely request them from others along Sherlock's route. The plan was to lead the Irish Thanatos on a merry chase, all the while cementing a bond—a relationship—which the Irishman would be unable to break.

A single suitcase of the woman's clothing had been also requested, early this morning in a text message, but Mycroft had instructed that only a day-bag be packed. He wanted Sherlock to be well away from anywhere metropolitan or urban by the time the ruse was discovered, but he also wanted to arouse as little suspicion as possible in the woman. Molly Hooper—a lovely Persephone that Mycroft had given up on his brother ever noticing long ago. He understood that sometimes even those who were at risk to be fated for one another just…weren't. For most of Sherlock's acquaintance with the woman, Mycroft had been under the impression that she just wasn't Sherlock's _type_.

Perhaps she still wasn't, but Mycroft could understand empathy and loyalty, and therefore understood Sherlock's fanatic desire to save her from the Irish court. If he failed to bring his brother up to date on the current members of that court, it didn't worry Mycroft Holmes overly much. His brother was deeply melancholic, and this was a handy way of speeding things up. It was the best for everyone that Sherlock be allowed to think whatever he liked in this situation.

Mycroft hated to see his brother in any kind of pain or distress and unless this happened then he was bound to see more rather than less. Hopefully Molly Hooper would, in time, come to see this in a positive light—she was a Persephone seed, after all, and more likely than most to adapt to the situation. She was a good woman, and she might be what changed his younger brother into a good man. Whatever the outcome, the elder Holmes brother looked forward to it with reluctant eagerness.

* * *

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	10. Chapter 10

A hearty thanks to reviewers of chapter nine: Justa Girl, Elliesmeow, Pip-2250, GottaGetM3sumPIE, broadwayb, AvoidedIsland, varjaks, squibalicious, , katdemon1895, Doctor WTF, and two guests!

A couple of you are just so onto where I'm going with the plot I sometimes worry that you've somehow hacked my computer...others, such as squibilicious, I am glad that I am not disappointing you! Varjaks: the answer to Stamford's role is to be found in one of Jims POV segments, and that is all I shall say until much, much later on in the story. And everyone else, just GAH I love you so much I am so glad you take time to read this story!

I hope to have another update up by the end of the week :)

Enjoy!

* * *

Mycroft saw his brother off personally—going to the Thames house and watching the live video feeds of Sherlock showing Molly Hooper into the car, driving off, and then varying shots as the cameras followed them out of London. The wireless earpiece he had on fed him a constant update on the estimated time before Sherlock arrived at the train station and any delays which he might be able to eliminate. Modern heists of people in broad daylight weren't impossible but they were a bit difficult in the long-run. Luckily Sherlock had Mycroft on his side.

It would be a shame if the woman, Molly, did not work out for Sherlock but Mycroft at least resolved not to blame her. His brother was not an easy man to know or care for or even love, and it was a testament to Molly's character that she'd ever wanted to know Sherlock at all. He sighed and took out his mobile, flicking through his contacts until he came up with the one he needed. It rang three times before finally getting picked up—the other man knew full well who was calling and was trying a power-play by answering in his own time.

"Mycroft, how are things across the water?"

"Pierre, yes, lovely day here thank you for asking. Now, my brother and I have just set in motion a titan of an event that I need you to let run its course for a while. He will be in your territory within the next few hours, shouldn't stay around for more than a week. If you let him through then I promise you'll have what you want handed to you on a silver platter."

"You're going to resolve things with the Irish then?"

"Yes. Do we have an agreement that you let him have the run of the place until he needs to move on?"

"Of course, Mycroft, of course." The joy in the other man's tone was gratifying to hear—most importantly because Pierre had asked no questions on _how in particular_ Mycroft was going to resolve the issue about Magda Hudson. The French, and a good many others, had never forgiven Mummy or Mrs. H for murdering their entire court—or for relocating themselves to England. There were people in the world who remembered the bloody events at the end of the 18th century, particularly German and Spanish courts whose members had fed hatred into the hastily formed replacement group in France. Mummy and her deeply talented Thanatos had left the country in utter shambles—and all for love. Father had wanted to go home, a place where Mummy could not follow unless she took on new responsibilities in a new area, in England. Mrs. Hudson had never thought to work for another Hades, and didn't want to at the time, and had helped with enthusiasm.

She would likely help again, having been quite fretful over Sherlock's wellbeing. His chance at happiness would come at the ruin of others—but that was nothing new in their shadowy world, and Magda, Mycroft knew, had wanted nothing more in the last few years other than seeing Sherlock properly settled. He was about to be, and she would likely do anything to keep him that way. Mycroft liked the notion of _anything_. The kidnap of Persephone was, after all, a metaphor for the harvest—for winter of a sort. He was going to visit a _hell_ of a winter on Pierre and his cronies.

There would be a bit of rioting or a deadly heatwave or a freak coldsnap or something to account for and create the deaths in the meantime as a new French court was formed and furnished, but it wasn't Mycroft's country to worry about. This would also serve as a teaching moment to those who didn't want to play nicely with the English—full cooperation was expected, anything less was not worth Mycroft Holmes' time. Perhaps then the Americans would get off his back about things.

"Anthea—I need you to send word to the landlady to watch the dog. I'm going out to get a drink of water, killer headache you know." His assistant nodded, not looking up from her workstation as she switched tasks quickly. As her fingers flew over the keys, Mycroft took a private moment and sent a quick text message.

_Meet me at home?_

_So needy, Daddy-boy. When?_

_An hour. S. is on his way to his happily ever after and I find I am in need of the same._

_The word is castle, then. See you in an hour._

* * *

The case was a real one, but one he'd solved remotely several weeks before. Part of John's _if you're bored_ lists usually included cases he'd rejected, and they were surprisingly helpful. Of course what was more helpful was Molly's presence. For the first time in _months_ he had felt comfortable enough to strip off his coat and jacket. He carried them, hooked on his fingers, over his shoulder. His other arm was taken up with seeing that Molly didn't wander too far from him—she radiated the most pleasant sort of heat where he touched her shoulder to guide her through the crowds up and out of the tube station.

Sherlock resisted grinning as he spotted the car Mycroft had planted for him, and he didn't glance around to see if anyone was watching him usher Molly towards the vehicle. The only people who would notice him already knew to look away. Everyone else was too oblivious to see the tall man hurrying the long-haired woman. At least if they did they felt it a safe gesture or none of their business.

There was a reason after so many thousands of years humans still needed Hades and other assorted gods of death—they ignored the wrongs in their societies, and opened gateways for violent, unnatural death. Sherlock knew it wouldn't change in his lifetime, but he did hold out forlorn hopes that someday there would be no need for one such as him.

"Sherlock—what was it that Mike thought—"

"No earthly idea. Only that he was most willing to cover for you, and for that I am deeply grateful. Car?"

She hesitated, for the first time all afternoon not readily bending to his will, and Sherlock panicked. Sheer bloody panic that had her face cupped between his hands and his lips pressed up against hers in seconds. The very moment she responded he changed the angle and broke contact, leaning his forehead against hers. His tongue, traitor, darted out and tasted the barest smear of lipstick that had rubbed off on his mouth. It seemed like she was holding her breath, and by contrast it seemed that he was breathing like he'd sprinted a block.

"There is no case, is there?"

With what he was about to do to Molly Hooper, he wouldn't lie to her now. Not when she was being clever.

"No. Had to—I can't explain everything here. I want to be away from distractions, and it's just for a day—okay?" At least, he wouldn't lie to her about things she asked about.

"I want to sort—I don't even know—you," this was all wildly off the plan, but Sherlock was good at recovering from setbacks, "you were with that man. I couldn't stand it. I can't stand it. I want things to be right with—I—the car—"

"Okay," she said softly, closing her eyes and lifting up on her toes just slightly to rub her nose on his. "Okay." Sherlock relaxed, sweeping his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks and pecking her lips once before letting go entirely and opening up the door of the car for her. Once he was also inside, another dose of panicked adrenaline shot through his system and left his heart racing once more.

"There are always too many distractions at Barts to focus properly, so I told John I'm taking the day—maybe tomorrow too—and I told Mike a lie and you and I are going to go to the seaside and talk things out and—"

"Sherlock stop worrying, I'm not about to bolt away. No one is going to snatch me away from you before you've said your piece," she laughed softly and gestured towards the roadway he had yet to signal to enter, "so drive. Hopefully you can do that as well as you kiss."

As he edited his plans in his head, Sherlock couldn't help but smile just a little. Now Molly wouldn't be asking questions about a case he'd already solved—and she wouldn't be surprised when they didn't actually head towards Dover. He'd be able to nearly pull right into the train station and get the car loaded before Molly suspected a thing. Neither he nor Mycroft had deluded themselves yesterday during their planning—Sherlock and Molly would be locked into the compartment with the car, because as soon as they were well on the train the game would be up. Molly would start to realize a little of what was happening, and it was best if she wasn't around anyone who could or would help her escape.

The long ride would also let Sherlock have the chance to explain as much as he could to her.

As he turned the car into the street, Sherlock took his left hand from the wheel and stretched it out across the console towards Molly. With her near him, or touching him even, it didn't feel like the world was made of ash and ice. He hadn't realized just how long he'd been in the shade of melancholy but it would end today hopefully. Sherlock Holmes would feel as normal a man as he ever would, with Molly at his side.

"You didn't have to be a git yesterday," she said as she put her hand in his.

"I didn't know what to do."

Molly was staring at him with a speculative squint to her eyes.

"And now you do."

Sherlock laughed and shook his head in a 'no' as he squeezed her fingers once.

"I _think_ I do, Molly."

* * *

Magda Hudson put on the kettle and waited for it to boil. She had already laid out a full formal tea for two, and hoped that it wouldn't be a waste. John thought she was dotty enough already, he didn't need to be invited for a real teatime by his landlady. No, she rather hoped that another man would be paying her a visit. A young Irishman named Jim Moriarty who had so far proven to be almost as good a Thanatos as herself—the only differing factor being in at what scale could he dispose of those who stood in his way. She would not entrust him with her dearest friend's son if Jim was not as able as herself.

It would be magnificent if he was able to complete her task as well as the awful—but also awfully necessary—one that young Mycroft had in mind.

The kettle had just clicked off when the buzzer went, and Magda was at the door in an instant. One of the few 'superpowers'—as a twelve year old Sherlock had called being a seed—afforded to her was something between teleportation and super speed. She, even after three hundred years, was still torn as to how to describe it properly.

Jim Moriarty was barely three inches taller than her, a small man without anything particularly imposing about him. A model Thanatos if she had ever seen or heard of one. Death was routine and normal, there was no need to be ostentatious. His confident smile froze at the sight of her and then slowly dropped away into a dazed pout.

"Oh, it was too good to be true, yes, Jim, but come in for a cuppa. I've something to talk to you about young man."

* * *

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	11. Chapter 11

A hearty thanks to reviewers of chapter ten: ebonyfox, Elliesmeow, neko0yue0moon, Justa Girl, LadySoy, GottaGetM3sumPIE, MoonShadow396, Pip-2250, Idle Writer of Crack, kawoosh, katdemon1895, and broadwayb!

Funfact: Proserpine is actually the Roman name of Persephone, so that autocorrect isn't all that wrong. Not really.

Also we're getting Jim & Mrs. H this time around, and with the Mike interlude the sharper among you will likely figure out Sherlock's plans well before Molly has even the slightest inkling of them. And since last time I promised a one-week turnaround which did NOT happen, I make no concrete promises about the update turnaround into chapter twelve. All I can say is the following:

_"They can live their entire lives in solitude and not miss a thing, or they can get married, have two mistresses or boy toys, six kids, two cats, a dog and a pet snake and be happy. While living with their inlaws. But _we_ cannot," Sherlock said._

With that little snippet to whet your appetite,

Enjoy!

* * *

Jim had always had a good relationship with the fates—the fates being whatever consciousness was in charge of the universe. They were never the same voices or the same motivations and only very occasionally possessing the same vision for the future, though, so he hesitated to say that they were really 'in charge' of anything. The decisions that every living creature made weren't controlled by these floating bits of consciousness—bits that could be picked up on and seen by regular humans who were deeply hallucinating.

Rather, the fates were much more like cobwebs. A habit, with traps and loopholes. Things got caught, other things did not.

Jim was just the spider at the center that tidied everything up. He never was so arrogant as to assume that it was _his_ web he was tidying. That was just life—things died, it was his job to make sure they did it properly.

_Cars. Zebra. Instant. Instant. Lingering. Instant…four_. His mentor had always had straight out visions of death, and he'd heard that others could smell it or feel it—going through their lives feeling nothing but ice interspersed with the fiery zing of the end of a life. Jim had always heard voices and seen faces. It was easier to hear his orders and see what amounted to mugshots of his clients. The fates in Britain had been so kind to take to him so soon—often times they had a hard time letting go of the fact that a Hades had changed their Thanatos.

**_In a moment, dears_. **Jim mumbled, staring at his reflection dazedly as the faces cycled next to his in the mirror. When his brain settled for a little bit, he finished lathering on his shaving cream and started shaving. The whispers of the fates giggled around him as he finished and washed his face. They liked him here, swarming around him with invisible warmth. Warmth—Jim cast a knowing glance in the mirror at the invisible fates fluttering in and around his head. He hoped that Sherlock Holmes had spent the night _warm_ for the first time in probably months.

Molly Hooper was hopefully everything Sherlock Holmes had ever wanted for himself. The man would've never seen her potential until it was too late—Jim wondered who the woman's Demeter was, because Sherlock was living day to day life far closer to a Persephone than Demeters normally let a fully realized Hades get. He must have earned some measure of deep respect from whoever was Molly's Demeter—and the Demeter must also be unrealized, if they weren't fully _aware_ of Sherlock.

**_So it was four then, was it?_**

_Four. Zebra—cross—**four,** **yes yes of course lovelies**._ Jim put on his best suit for the day—he would take care of a little business, and then he would go to the flat on Baker Street and introduce himself to the happy couple. It was going to be just a lovely day, he decided as he left the flat. It was going to be curtains for this awful, wandering time without a proper Hades to work for—lacy, gently wafting curtains.

The little slip of what Jim could only call magic was all that took to mark humans for death. Just a tap on the shoulder or a kiss on the cheek—as a very famous but also very disturbed Thanatos had done once upon a time—was enough to set things in motion which were unseen even by the seeds who brought it about. The thing with Death, the idea and the place and the action all tied together, was that it was truly the great unknown. No one had ever come back from it—as that particular Thanatos had learned to his deep horror as his hopes were proved betrayed—and no one truly understood or knew it.

But it could be controlled. People could be marked for death—and they could be marked for life. The Thanatos of any particular court was the one to bestow both markings, according to Jim's mentor. From what he could tell there was only magic to explain it, though some—his future boss on Baker Street among them—were attempting to rationalize it with science.

Magic was just science that hadn't been explained yet. What marked some for the graveyard and others for the long road might not be all that mystical—but Jim was content to listen to the chittering whispers and giggles of the fates for now. Let great people like Sherlock Holmes solve the big mysteries. Men and women like Jim Moriarty were more than happy to content themselves with brushing against strangers on the tube or while jostling for a cab. They were equally suited for their jobs—it was never Jim's job to rule, just to carry out.

The car alarms, screaming sobs, and distant sirens made a triumphant song behind him as he walked confidently away from the horrific accident at the zebra crossing towards Baker Street. He would brush up against Sherlock's Cerberus and make sure that the 'detective' could keep his pet around for a good amount of time. Not Molly though. He wouldn't touch a hair on her this soon after getting Sherlock's attention zeroed in on her. Jim liked living quite enough and he didn't want to find out first hand if a Hades driven mad with jealousy could actually kill their Thanatos, and besides he'd already marked her with long life. Just before showing himself to Sherlock Holmes for the first time, in essence ensuring she would never leave the isle of Britain under the control of another court. He had done a massive favor for Sherlock, and he dearly hoped to be rewarded handsomely.

* * *

Mike watched Sherlock escort Molly from the morgue and shook his head. She was certainly something—able to keep it together in the face of the news Sherlock had broken to her as well as the autopsy on the old janitor. Mike couldn't quite remember his name—Sewell or something like that. Man had had his cancer go nuclear the last six months of his life and had donated his body to the hospital in the hopes of perhaps saving some other old man from the same fate. It was certainly a nice thought.

It was later in the day as he was doing some follow-up paperwork that Mike got an email from Molly. Her words were expected, but still conveyed sad tidings for the remaining family she had left these days. She thanked him in her usual stilted way for covering for her before briefly elaborating that there had been a terrible accident up North with her brother and his children. Her brother wasn't expected to make it, and her young nieces needed someone to look after them and could she dip into some of her standard leave time rather than use up all of her emergency hours?

There was genuine heartbreak and sadness but also the resignation of a true pathologist—death came to everyone eventually, even close loved ones. Those girls were going to need a dozen therapists though, with Sherlock and Molly being the ones to comfort them through the loss of their father. Better that no one, he thought to himself though.

Mike wrote back immediately that he would see that it was all worked out. He called the appropriate departments and had her put on a few weeks of compassionate leave—and as he was closing up the labs he smiled to himself despite everything.

Sherlock Holmes had texted Mike that he'd just picked up on some terrible news through an old contact of his—Molly's brother involved in a horrific car crash, going to fetch her to now. It showed that Sherlock _cared_ about Molly and that was a great thing in light of the coming tragedy—she would need someone to lean up against. The call an hour later had been quite expected. Anyone, even someone as lonely and awkward as Molly Hooper would write in that they'd need to rush up to be with their family. Speaking of not being alone through a tragedy, it was for the best that Molly had someone with her. She too often caved in on herself with grief, as she had with her father. Hopefully Sherlock would keep her spirits up in some way, and that she wouldn't turn to that man she'd been seeing recently. Jim from IT gave Mike the creeps, and he cut up dead bodies for a living.

But then again so did Molly and she had once upon a time been quite hung up on Sherlock. It was a wonder, Mike decided, that she was able to work on the cancer-related autopsies at all after the struggles her father had gone through. Maybe Jim from IT didn't give her the creeps because she was made of sterner stuff than any of them gave her credit for.

* * *

Jim was numb as he followed Old Magda Hudson into 221A for a cuppa. He'd always looked up to her work, shyly wondering if he would ever have his own chance to prove himself so fully in the Irish court—or any court for that matter. He'd even heard rumors that she heard the fates and saw the faces, just like he did, and that had always sparked a certain kinship in his mind for her. She was a truly great lady, and an even greater Thanatos. He'd mourned her for the last year, thinking that she'd passed away.

"You probably got the information mixed up, Jimmy—Stanley is the one who retired and passed away shortly thereafter." Eoghan had always called him Jimmy, and with that nickname coming out of Hudson's lips he settled into her comfortable chair and drank his tea as was expected of him. Inside he was reeling. His plans were viciously upset now—he would have to find his way to the Continent and find a court there. Britain was a bust and any moment now Hudson was going to ask him politely—but _firmly_—to relocate his freelance operation elsewhere.

"But take heart," the other Thanatos said to him with the smile of the sweet old lady she'd always been, "you're not the only one who is working on mixed up information." Jim nearly choked on his tea as it all filtered through his brain over the giggling of the fates. Old Magda Hudson would never let another Thanatos go tromping around her territory like a bull in a china shop as Jim had been doing—she had known full well he was here, and she'd _let _him. Not only had she _let_ him—

"It's been a set-up from the start." The sweet old lady across from him flashed a loving smile his way as she raised her teacup in a mock salute. Jim sank farther into his chair and tried not to drop his tea all over his nice suit as the fates mumbled strings of their plans into his ear. For the first time since Eoghan had made him put a mark of death on his retreating back, Jim felt like he still had miles to learn about doing his job even remotely right.

He kind of liked the feeling.

* * *

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